


Disengage

by Possk



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awkwardness, Fluff, M/M, Meteorstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:39:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9496076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Possk/pseuds/Possk
Summary: In which Dave attempts to confess his feelings to Karkat through a mirror and ends up enlisting the aid of the Mayor upon realizing that mirrors do not, in fact, talk back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "I try to put the feelings into thoughts or words but it always seems to come out in disjointed sweeping statements. Adolescent jargon peppered with random selections from a fairly gaudy vocabulary. A Frederick's of Hollywood vocabulary." - Fisher 2016 [126]

[ _I could be yours if you wanted me, I’m sure I could find the time.  
My heart’s in a pile of discarded things, I’ll brush off the dirt and the grime._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)

_\--_

“Soooo, Karkat. Karkat, Karkat, Karkat. My main man, my best bro. I was just, uh, thinking—hey, don’t give me that look, my mind is a damn fine steel trap full of thoughtful deliberation and reflection, thank you very much—that we’re about two years—or one sweep I guess—into our meteor trip. And in that time, we’ve grown, er, _closer,_ where we’re now snug peas in a particularly prolific pod of broship. And like, I’m being 100% sincere here, that, well—fuck, okay, stay with me, but I kind of. Want to maybe be more than that? Not that being bros with you isn’t awesome, because hell fucking _yeah_ it is, but just. Whenever my dumb metaphors make you smile, or your pointy ears twitch when you’re pretending to _not_ smile, or hell, whenever you get super passionate about something and your eyes light up and you start talking until you’re red in the face, I uh. Get this pang in my chest? It makes me feel— _you_ make me feel—like I’m an actual person, you know? Not just some ironic accessory. And I want to—shit, I don’t know, kiss you? Can I do that? I, uh. Well. Fuck.”

Smooth. You are the smoothest motherfucker around. It is you.

_Not._

The mirror you’re currently wooing says nothing in return to that egregious display of word vomit. Rather, all it has to offer is your impromptu impression of Bob the Tomato as a steady blush rushes across your cheeks. Which, of course, would be fine if you were A) religious or B) ever attended Sunday school in the first place. Instead, your foremost exposure to Veggie Tales was watching the likely corrupted editions your Bro had on hand back in Texas, and that was, to say the least, not the most enriching cinematic experience of your childhood. Now all you feel like is a particularly flustered priest trying to indoctrinate the innocent masses into a gay cult.

Karkat’s verbose asshole of an ancestor would probably say you were participating in religious appropriation with all that nonsense, but hey. If Bob the Tomato wants to paint the world rainbow, Bob the Tomato is going to paint the world fucking rainbow. Hell, it’s not like they were exactly _subtle_ in his relationship with Larry. It was basically vegetable laden propaganda, corrupting all the children with a flaming gay agenda and—

Yeah okay, you’re getting carried away again.

“Ugh, fuck this,” You groan, burying your face in your hands as the embarrassment catches up with you. Thinking all that was one thing, but actually _saying_ it, even to your own reflection, was beyond mortifying. If Karkat were here, he’d probably fall flat on his ass laughing at that humiliating display of ‘genuine Strider’ soufflé. Or, more likely, just complain about how unromantic it was before rejecting you like week old grub loaf. Something like that. You sink back into bed, head flopping unceremoniously against the covers.

You guess you’re making some progress, relatively speaking. It hadn’t been all that long ago that you’d refused to even _consider_ harboring feelings for your best bro, what with the whole ‘hey I’m a dude, he’s a dude, and two dudes don’t exactly make for a heterosexual relationship according to Earthly society’ last you’d checked. And boy howdy, had _you_ checked. At the peak of what Rose has affectionately deemed your ‘sexuality crisis,’ you had scoured the Internet’s desolate depths for hours on end, only to come up empty handed with nada, zilch, zippo to show for it.

It wasn’t as if your hang ups drew from a religious background or the like. While Jewish, it’s not like your Bro ever lit a menorah for Hanukkah or broke matzah during Passover. You’re fairly certain he hadn’t believed in much of anything beyond swords, shades, and puppets, so it’s not too surprising you grew up atheist in the long run. But while you may not believe in any afterlife to speak of, hell, heaven, or otherwise, you _do_ believe in Bro. Or, did. You’re still wrapping your head around that certified can of worms. And goddamn, two years ago, you would have done _anything_ to be like Bro. He was the personification of all things masculine, the absolute definition of indomitable manliness. The modern Jack Churchill, the bespectacled Muhammad Ali, the goddamn Segata Sanshiro of ninjas. He was the manliest man to ever man, as far as you were concerned back then.

And wanting to kiss boys is about as unmanly as it gets. At least according to mainstream society’s now dead decorum, that is. If you crushed on a guy, there was no way you’d ever be like Bro, ever live up to his hyper masculinity and become the hero everyone expected you to be. The hero _Bro_ demanded you be. So you suppressed those urges, burying them through untold levels of irony and witticisms that barely fooled John, much less Rose, and only ever succeeded in deluding yourself. But with Earth’s destruction and Bro’s subsequent death, you’ve had a lot more time to dwell on things you’d long neglected. It brought sexuality to the forefront of the conversation once you realized spending time with Karkat made you feel _awful_ similar to how you’d felt around Jade and Terezi months prior. Sweaty palms, a speeding heart, and your guts throwing a goddamn quinceañera whenever Karkat so much as cracked a smile at your breathtakingly inane bullshit all began to clue you in that maybe, just _maybe_ , your feelings for him ran just a tad deeper than friendship.

Needless to say, you had flipped your shit.

Two breakdowns and several sessions that you refuse to deem ‘therapy’ with Rose later, you came to accept that maybe liking guys _wasn’t_ such a deal breaker—and that maybe manliness didn’t matter so much anymore to begin with, what with the apocalypse rendering gender dynamics rather moot.

And this is how you found yourself here, romancing a mirror with the ineptitude of a two star chef battling bankruptcy.

Shit is, by all accounts, fucked.

Lost in your romantic shortcomings, you fail to realize you’re not alone until you feel a _tap tap tapping_ of small claws against your thigh. You blink, turning away from your ceiling bound staring contest, and—oh, you’d know that endearingly filthy bedsheet anywhere. A tiny Dersite stands before you, crinkling his even tinier eye in scrutiny from just above the mattress lining. Well, fuck. How long has he _been_ there—wait. The shame returns full stop when you realize _shit,_ the Mayor _heard_ you and oh god can paradox space just kill you right now. Let Jack have his doggone way with you, dismembered Dave bits and all, so long as you don’t have to deal with the Mayor’s certain judgement. That shit would straight up kill you, god tier be damned; disappointing the little carapacian was as Just a death as any could be. Blood rushes to your face and nope, fuck that, you can’t do this. Without a second thought, you twist yourself over like a goddamn acrobat and dive beneath your pillow.

“Dave’s not here,” you cough, ignoring the Mayor’s panicked start at your ninja-like reflexes. “He’s, uh, mixing some sick beats up over in can town and he’s not accepting any calls. Too busy dropping ill numbers and all, you know how it is with celebrities. Come back any time that isn’t, like, now.” Or tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after _that_ … You’ve gotta put off the inevitable for as long as possible. Even if it means distancing yourself from the cutest carapacian this side of the galaxy. A cruel, but nevertheless necessary, fate.

But as it would seem, the Mayor’s not having any of your shit today. With a huff, he leans over to tug more insistently at your pajama sleeve, skewing the cables binding his mayoral sash in the process. When you fail to respond—and boy was _that_ a challenge in of itself—he climbs atop the bed to continue tapping at your exposed hand. Still, you persist, the war weathered soldier that you are. After a minute or so, the Mayor decides to change tactics. Bless his democratic heart, he elects to clamber atop _you_ and _bounce_ like he’s in a goddamn boingalow on his sixth birthday. And, well. Fuck. That’s where you break, verbally and metaphorically. How can you ever resist the adorableness that is the Mayor? You can’t, that’s how. Also, that carapace skin is _way_ heavier than it looks, holy crap. Sensing your newfound compliance, the Mayor pulls back with a satisfied nod, allowing you to reluctantly peel away the pillow and face the music. What music, you ask? Rap, cappella? The strangled chicken squawks Terezi so generously calls singing? Whatever asshole came up with that idiom really should have specified, because you’d rather not have shrill ass opera blasting at your interpersonal hearing.

The Mayor, patient saint that he is, allows your mind to wander into who-the-fuck-know’s-where as he makes himself comfortable. Patting his robes down and tucking his feet under stick-thin legs, he sits cross-legged from across the bed, exuding an air of frequent practice as he pulls some crayons and paper from their cable bound niche. Which, of course, makes sense—between yourself, Karkat, and the Mayor, your feeling jams have become a thing of legend. Hell, the little carapacian is so prepared nowadays that he’s fallen into the habit of pocketing spare supplies should the need ever arise. Because the Mayor can’t talk (or at least has never expressed any interest in doing so), your trio relies on shittier-than-thou art and haphazard gesticulations that would make any mime break down sobbing. You choose to think those tears derive from fellow pantomime pride; Karkat chooses instead to question, “what the blister-squawking fuck’s a ‘mime?’”

He still doesn’t believe you that people actually dressed in tacky stripes and clown makeup for the sole purpose of harassing the innocent masses with silent tomfoolery. His loss.

Speaking of mimicry, you cross your own legs to face the Mayor’s expectant gaze and ready purple crayon—one of the few colors left, actually. Between Terezi’s fixation with red utensils and the Mayor’s avid appetite for all things green, your coloring pack has dwindled down to a pathetic collection of blue, yellow, and purple over the past year and a half. Still, you pluck it from the Mayor’s outstretched hand without complaint and drag its misshapen form across the laid out paper.

Technically you don’t _have_ to draw—the Mayor can understand everything you say just fine—but like hell if you’re going to turn down any opportunity to scribble some half-assed dicks for your adoring public. Some celebrities signature their work with cursive; you make your mark with phallic imagery.

Everything’s relative.

“So, uh. I guess you heard me confess my love for—crap, _attraction_ to Karkat, right?” You say as you scratch down two uneven circles. The Mayor bobs his head in affirmation. “And you won’t, like… well I hate to question the magnanimity vested in your authority, since that shit’s so uncool it’s melting the icecaps and drowning all the polar bears, but. You won’t tell him, will you?” The Mayor shakes his head in negative. To emphasize his reassurance, he pats his claws against your knee, drawing a huge sigh of relief from deep inside your chest. How could you ever question this little executive in chief? Actually, now that you think about it, this is the second time today you’ve questioned him. Damn, you need to step the fuck up. Not fair to the Mayor to do anything less than your best.

“Well, now that you know my deepest, darkest secret,”—the Mayor raises his brow—“I guess that’s about it for our feelings jam today. Like, look at the time—and I’m the God of Time okay so I _know_ these things, I practically wrote the goddamn book on all things temporal—it’s getting way late. Or early, I guess, depending on your take. Mid-afternoon? Fuck, maybe I don’t know. You know, scratch what I said before, time’s an illusionary construct and we’re just the pitiful heathens employing it so we can try to make some sense of the bullshit that is paradox space. Which is none, because it’s still bullshit. It’s just an illusion, see, and we’re the suckers wrapped up in its wily ways. But not today, Mayor, not today or any other day from now on. Viva la fucking revolution. Time can kiss my ass, kiss it like in Karkat’s shitty Harlequin paperbacks. I’m no longer bound by its hourly constraints, fuck no. I’m free as a bird, unclipped and untamed, and this here messenger pigeon’s gotta spread his wings and fly to share this sagely wisdom with the rest of the world. Which is, like, seven people right now. Or eight, I guess, if you count the juggalo. But between you and me, I’m in the very profitable business of _not_ counting the juggalo. Or even thinking of him. Guy can keep his clown ass-self ignorant of this hella rad insight for all I care. Either way, this banana’s gotta split, gotta win Olympic gold with these kickass mental gymnastics I’m brandishing. Step aside McKayla, this here vaulter’s about to impress your ass from now to sundown and ain’t nobody gonna stop him today. Which is still not a thing, btw. Later, Mayor.”

You move to abscond because mother of _christ_ this is embarrassing, but the Mayor catches your arm before you can so much as roll your legs off the side—and you feel your resolve crumble the second those small black fingers wrap around your wrist. With anyone else, your walls are impenetrable, thick and solid and unrelenting to outside forces. Hell, Karkat himself struggles to breach them, even if his tools to do so have grown from a termite ridden stick to a rather hefty pickaxe packing steroids. But with the Mayor…your defenses might as well be a decrepit, long rusted through fence. You can weather almost any storm, practically any other situation, but there’s just no arguing with the Mayor. The Mayor gets what the Mayor wants, and if the Mayor wants you to spill your guts, that’s what he’s going to get.

You just hope he doesn’t think less of you for it.

Heaving a sigh, you re-cross your legs and turn back toward his expectant face. Fuck, you can’t believe you’re doing this, but. If anyone can help you, the Mayor can. Still, you’ll need your artistic distractions like a phallic lifeline. You pick up the crayon again.

“So… as you know, I’ve, uh. Got a _teensy_ crush on Karkat,” you begin. “Tiny thing, so small it’s practically microscopic—Mayor don’t give me that look, this is hard enough as is—but it’s still a ‘thing.’ Not a thing like The Thing, we’re not some poor saps freezing our balls off in Antarctica waiting for a monster to gut us. We’re just some poor saps freezing our balls off in space waiting for a monster to gut us. Crucial difference. And I’m not sure what to do about it. The crush, I mean, not small dark and stab-happy. I know that relationship advice ain’t exactly part of your mayoral duties, but. If you could throw down any suggestions, any at all, I’d seriously appreciate it.” As the words tumble off your tongue, you feel your face heating up faster than one of those shitty hot pockets catching fire in the microwave. You duck your head in shame, pointedly prioritizing an oval for your lewd masterpiece to avoid the Mayor’s gaze. “’Cause, well. You saw that travesty of a confession. It was so shitty even the mirror turned me down—fuck, _I’d_ turn me down. And if Karkat rejects me no matter what, I’d at least like to walk away with some dignity intact.” Not that you’re all that dignified these days anyways, what with your dick hop scotch and ring around the rosie games, but the principle still stands.

The Mayor seems to consider this as he taps a blue crayon to his temple. After a moment, he claps both hands together and brings the utensil to paper, shielding it from sight with his other arm. Anxiety eats at your stomach as you watch him work, but you know better than to sneak a peek and see whatever he’s piecing together. Not long into your journey, the Mayor had informed you through frantic arm waving that no, you are _not_ allowed to see what he’s drawing until _after_ he’s finished. At least when it comes to important things, anyways. Which in of itself is comforting in a sense, that the Mayor’s gracious enough to consider your relationship bullshit important. You fight back a smile; the Mayor really _is_ the best, and if there was ever an election, you bet your bottom boonbuck you’d vote for him. Hell, you’d commit voter fraud for this little guy. Fuck the guys in blue, those ballot boxes would be so stuffed in his favor they’d make Thanksgiving turkeys blush. GW himself would be like ‘oh, shit, that’s some fucking unanimity there, I gotta get me some of that.’

If anyone deserves to be in charge of the new world, it’s the Mayor.

Several minutes pass as the Mayor works, leaving you to finish your prick laden piece in silence. You’re in the midst of finessing it, making that shit something da Vinci himself would envy, when he taps your knee again. Blinking, you pick your head up to watch as the Mayor gives one last overview of his assured masterpiece. Seemingly satisfied with it, he nods and pushes it toward you for inspection.

It’s a simple comic, only three pages to its name, and drawn with the skill of a five year old. Still, like hell if it doesn’t make your heart swell with even _more_ affection for the Mayor, which at this point should be a goddamn impossibility with how much you already love—yes, 100% genuinely and unironically love, everybody and their mother can fuck off—him.

The first panel’s just a picture of you and Karkat with little speech bubbles drawn overhead, standing together in what appears to be the common room. You smirk when you realize Karkat’s bubble is exclusively comprised of exclamation marks, with big fat strokes breaking through the designated lines; yours is comparatively uninteresting in its incomprehensible squiggles. Despite lacking the appropriate colors, the Mayor had decided to go all out, shading the stick figures blue and yellow to bring a little liveliness to the art. You’re struck with a sudden understanding why parents on TV are so fussy over their children’s art, because if this wasn’t top secret confidentiality material, you’d pin it to the kitchen’s refrigerator in a goddamn heartbeat.

You turn the page. The next panel is essentially the same drawing, but with a small heart replacing your bubble’s speech. For what feels like the umpteenth time today, your face warms as you look up to the Mayor again. He nods in silent encouragement, and yeah, you know he’s right. If you want this relationship to go anywhere, you’re going to have to talk to Karkat himself instead of trying to romance your reflection. Which, while is quality irony in its own right, doesn’t help boost your non-existent dating life. The Mayor pats down the paper as an urge for you to continue. You comply, turning the second page over and oh good _god_ what have you done to deserve this.

The third and final piece is fairly similar to the two before, but with one important difference. Crude as the stickmen are, you’d recognize those nubby horns and kickass shades anywhere. And right here, right now, those two circles are unmistakably sucking face.

Yeah, can Jack come get you now? Like is that still a thing or has that boat already shipped sail?

“Uh, Mayor. I, uh, well. Um. Much as I appreciate your hella rad support—like seriously, you’re the best thing since sliced bread, no fucking contest—don’t you think that’s a bit…forward?” At least, in your humble opinion it is. Take a lady to dinner first before macking on her like a syrup laden pancake on buffet day, for fuck’s sake.

Said carapacian appears to think otherwise, for he gives his head a vigorous shake. For good measure, he taps the drawing with stronger insistence, giving you a knowing look from beneath his shabby robes. Why is he so sure of himself? For that matter, how does the Mayor know this is going to work? Has the Mayor actually _dated_ anyone before? Do carapacians even date? What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

You have so many questions and so few answers.

Godfuckingdammit you did not sign up for this shit. Or, okay maybe you did the second you decided hanging with the grumpy troll was more fun than sitting by yourself all day, but still. The principle still _stands_ and oh fucking hell the Mayor’s not going to budge on this is he.

Indeed, although the Mayor long ago elected to grace you with infinite patience, you can tell he’s not going to leave you alone on this matter. Which is probably for the best, since you’re not sure you can level the stones necessary to tell Karkat without a bit of a push. Well, more like a rocket fired propelled shove off a canyon in your case. Same difference, in the end.

You take a deep breath. You hate yourself for not closing your door like any normal goddamn person would.

“Alright.”

Let’s get this shit show on the road.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essentially just a motley of personal headcanons compounded into fic form between two of the most incredibly awkward turtle ducks ever to grace paradox space. This is my first finished piece overall, and I'm excited to share these nerds with you. But if you see any mistakes or have any constructive criticism, definitely alert me. Want to get better at this.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr at [agentsokka](http://agentsokka.tumblr.com/) if you're curious about anything!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody out of the goddamn way. You’ve got a cape full of swag, a chest full of nerves, and a heart full of raging teenage hormones ready to romance one obstreperous troll off his feet. As the great poets of a long lost civilization once bleated into the abyss that is the Internet, you are doing this, man. You are _making this happen._

[ _We could go out if you wanted to, talk about things that we like.  
I don’t have a lot I can offer you, but I can be fun if I try._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)

_\--_

Everybody out of the goddamn way. You’ve got a cape full of swag, a chest full of nerves, and a heart full of raging teenage hormones ready to romance one obstreperous troll off his feet. As the great poets of a long lost civilization once bleated into the abyss that is the Internet, you are doing this, man. You are _making this happen._

Which is, of course, why you’re standing in front of the door with your hands firmly stuffed in your lint laden pockets rather than doing said romancing. You’re just waiting for the right moment, obviously. What’s that about too sweaty palms to knock? Damn lies. Some obtuse fuck’s going around gifting fabrications like a slanderous Robin Hood. What’s that, little Jimmy? You wanted a hay penny for your sister’s operation? Too fucking bad, have some straight up defamation instead.

Minutes pass as you stare holes into the door, half-hoping Karkat himself will open it and half-hoping he keeps his fidgety ass glued to the bed so he doesn’t have to find his best bro standing in the hallway like an inept peeping tom. Said tom would theoretically be out of the bag should that happen—you’re pretty sure Karkat can put two and two together when your heart spontaneously combusts at the very sight of him in embarrassment—but you don’t want to risk any misunderstandings when that metaphysical cat’s still got you by the tongue. Plus, a Dead Dave isn’t exactly how you want to start this or any relationship. You wouldn’t earn yourself any favors by needing your potential boyfriend/matesprit/what _ever_ to clear your sorry carcass from the meteor’s surface.

Yeah, OK, definitely knock first. You just have to do the, ah, knocking. Which brings you back to your original problem. You worry your lip—yet another display of emotion in an increasingly more frequent succession—as you try to reign in your nerves. You take a deep breath. Clenching your fist, you raise it to the door with momentary hesitation, and rap your knuckles against it.

Silence.

“Well,” you say as relief and disappointment simultaneously wash over you, “alright. Okay, cool. Yeah. Got it.” You tried. Obviously, you’ve dodged a bullet with this near fiasco, and the fates are clearly telling you to piss the fuck off in the name of platonic broship. There’s nothing more you can do, so all that’s left is to hide under the covers in shame for the remainder of the trip like any respectable soldier should. You twist around and—awwww shit fuck that’s the Mayor at the end of the hallway, isn’t it.

Yeah, it is. Goddammit.

In your rush to get this shit over with, you’d left him standing in your room with his metaphorical pants down. You'd just known that if you were _really_ going to do this thing, it’d require you to do it as fast as possible while you still had your nerve. To rip it off like a band-aid, as it were, and bolt to Karkat's door and lay your heart bare before he could so much as question what the hell you're doing. You're a man on a mission, and you hadn’t expected the Mayor would follow you to begin with, honestly. But despite the darkness, you spy him leaning into the corridor, fingers brushing against the wall as he pegs your scrawny frame with a stern gaze. Seeing your predicament, the Mayor gives a sharp nod of encouragement. At least, you like to _think_ it’s encouragement, and not some sort of implied threat that you’ll lose your Deputy Mayor of Can Town privileges if you chicken out. You gulp.

“Mayor, he ain’t here,” you say, gesturing toward the bedroom. “I already knocked and he didn’t answer. I—”

The Mayor is once again immune to your shit. Rather than listen to your ramble as per usual, he waves his arm to cut you off before the snowball even starts rolling. Your jaw clicks shut against your will. Once satisfied that you’ve decided to shut up, he points toward the door, jabbing his claw into the air with enough gusto to fillet carbon dioxide.

That said, the frantic motion causes his oversized hood to topple, falling over his eyes and obstructing his vision on impact. With a startled squeak, the Mayor scrambles to readjust it. After a brief minute of struggling, he appears to deem his efforts fruitless and gives up the good fight. Instead, he opts for tossing it back over his head entirely, revealing the black cue ball beneath as the blanket bundles atop his shoulders. He squints, adapting to the sudden light (or, rather, lack thereof). Huffing, the Mayor then repeats his wave with much less enthusiasm.

Okay, yeah. Fuck that was adorable. There’s no way you’re getting out of this now.

“Fine,” you say, throwing your hands up in the air. “Fine. You win, Mayor. But one of these days, I’ll be able to resist your charm. One day.” One day that is not today, and in all likelihood, will never be any other day. Damn that cute carapacian and his wily ways. Turning around, you once again steel your will and stare down Karkat’s bedroom door.

Unbeknownst to you, said carapacian is smiling to himself, eyes glittering softly in the darkness.

“Karkat,” you say, louder this time, and slap your palm against the door for equal measure. “Yo, Karkat. You in there?” The hallway remains quiet, with nothing but the sound of your echoing voice to keep it company. You knock harder. “Come out, dude. It’s the police, we have you surrounded. Either exit the block with your hands in the air, or we’ll be forced to break the door down.” Still no response. “Or, okay probably not. Shit’s thicker than Zangief’s thighs after a twelve week workout and I’m not about that life. I’ll just keep bothering you until you get your ass out here, how about that?”

No cursing, no haphazard swears. Nothing. You don’t even hear the loud springs and sproings of the mattress Karkat always likes to complain about when he lays on it. Frowning, you turn again to the hallway. The Mayor’s already walking toward you with chin in hands and hood now back in its proper place.

“Unless Karkat’s up and died on us, I don’t think he’s in here,” you say, throwing your thumb behind your shoulder. “And even then, I doubt he’d give us this kind of peace and quiet. Scratch that, I _know_ he wouldn’t. Ghost Karkat would haunt the ever living shit out of us. And I don’t see Eddy Murphy giving out free tours of the haunted mansion, so I think it’s safe to scratch Disney level horror off our list.” The Mayor shakes his head in agreement. “What’s next, then?”

Pocketing your hands, you fidget a little. Not gonna lie, you were banking on this venture being a success, what with the whole Mayor reinforcement thing going for you and finally feeling secure in your feelings to begin with. But Karkat’s absence weighs on your motivation, encouraging doubts you’d set away with the Mayor’s support. Worries about his reaction—hell, _your_ reaction—and how much it could damage your status as best bros if he doesn’t reciprocate.

You’re positive he won’t shame you outright. You’ve known the troll long enough to feel secure in that fact. But you don’t want to deal with weeks of awkwardness and avoidance, especially when you can begin to count down the months to the new session. There’s still a year left, sure, but what if it’s marred by whatever bullshit consequences emerge from your confession?

A small tug on your sleeve jostles you from your thoughts. You look down and see the Mayor’s taken it upon himself to not only cling to your clothes like a miniature King Kong, but stand on his tippy toes atop your shoes. He huffs and gives your pajamas another ring once he’s captured your attention.

Right, the problem at hand. Your romantic woes can hold their goddamned horses already. Karkat’s not here, so where the hell is he?

“Yeah, sorry Mayor,” you say. “Spaced out there for a minute.” The Mayor cocks his head, and you resist the urge to groan. “Which is _still_ not a thing, okay. Don’t give me that look.”

The little carapacian smirks, honest to god _smirks,_ and sweet shit he’s been hanging around you and Karkat too long if he’s starting to pick up on the whole ‘snarky motherfucker’ crap you’ve long since honed to perfection.

“Okay, I guess all we can do is sweep the meteor. We’ve got a troll to find. You ready, Watson?”

Content, your newly anointed assistant hops off your feet to bounce on the balls of his own. He bobs his head in affirmation and takes hold of your hand, wrapping his fingers around yours. The Mayor then tugs you down the hallway, and you begin your quest for the ever elusive-but-not-really ‘object of your affections.’

Ugh, that hurt to say. You’ve a feeling this is going to be a long day.

Which still is not a goddamn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essentially just a motley of personal headcanons compounded into fic form between two of the most incredibly awkward turtle ducks ever to grace paradox space. This is my first finished piece overall, and I'm excited to share these nerds with you. But if you see any mistakes or have any constructive criticism, definitely alert me. Want to get better at this.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr at [agentsokka](http://agentsokka.tumblr.com/) if you're curious about anything!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Goddamn, why does today of all days have to be the one where Karkat decides to play hide-and-seek? He _never_ wants to play hide-and-seek,” you groan. “Now he’s just one upping Carmen Sandiego—and he never wants to play _that_ either.”

[ _I am a robot._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)   
[ _My heart is a clock in a tin box._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)   
[ _There’s bugs in my brain, and my jaw locks up when I try to ask you to stay._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)

\--

After about an hour or so of walking through the meteor’s seemingly endless series of secret halls, staircases, and passageways, you’re about ready to call it quits. You’ve run into three dead ends and five turnarounds, all within the past thirty minutes, with no sign of Karkat to be found. Even the Mayor’s starting to get tired as his legs struggle to keep pace with your longer strides. By the time you reach your fourth dead end, he all but collapses on the ground.

“Oh shit,” you say, crouching down to his level. “Are you okay?”

Panting, the Mayor gives you a tiny nod. He tries to pull himself back up, only to fall back against the floor in a huff.

“Whoa there, little guy,” you say. Even though you doubt he minds, you notice his robes are even more disheveled than usual from the fall. You pat his back regardless, ruffling the uneven strips of blanket. “Take it easy there. We can go back if you need to rest, don’t overdo it. Karkat will still be somewhere around here when you’re better.”

The Mayor, who’s barely holding himself up by his arms as is, shakes his head vehemently. For some reason, he’s determined to see this through. And fuck if you don’t feel bad that he’s wearing himself out for your cause. He rolls over, tiny chest heaving with effort. Aw man. He can’t continue like this, but he refuses to stop following you—so what do you do? A thought strikes you soon enough, and you bend over him.

“Well, I dunno why you’re so hell bent on me doing this, but. C’mere,” you say. Digging your palms under his back, you stand up straight with the Mayor bridal style in your grasp. He squeaks, but otherwise doesn’t protest. You seat him atop your shoulders, and he throws his legs over them in turn. He wiggles around to get comfortable—and goddamn, how is carapacian skin _that_ heavy?—but it thankfully doesn’t take too long before he’s good and settled. You can’t help but wince though when the Mayor digs his claws into your hair for purchase.

“Careful up there, Mayor,” you say, reorienting yourself to the additional weight. “You’re no rat and I sure as hell ain’t some French fuck with a pasta fetish. This here pony ride drives himself, with only occasional breaks for input.”

Flattening his belly against your neck, he pats the crown of your head in acknowledgement. You smile.

“Alright, let’s see if we can find out where we are. Hang on tight.”

You head for the right hallway, hoping Karkat will by some chance be down that one. That right turns into a left, then another left, then keep going straight for the next fifteen minutes with only the sounds of your shoes clacking against the steel to accompany the two of you. After the sixth turn, four transporter pads, and three sets of stairs, you have to admit defeat.

You’re still lost. Great.

At least the Mayor isn’t struggling to keep pace anymore. Instead, he lays snug across your shoulders, pointing this way or that whenever you stop to ask for directions. Not that he knows either, of course, but it helps him feel involved in the process. What process, you ask? Fuck if you know, you’re just flying by the seat of your pajama pants.

 “Goddamn, why does today of all days have to be the one where Karkat decides to play hide-and-seek? He _never_ wants to play hide-and-seek,” you groan. “Now he’s just one upping Carmen Sandiego—and he never wants to play _that_ either.”

The Mayor pats your head comfortingly, but it does little to assuage your growing frustration. Usually when you get lost (which happens with unfortunate frequency), you’ll bump into someone or another soon enough. Karkat, Rose, Kanaya. Even _Gamzee_ gave you directions once, though that incident mainly involved you running as fast as possible away from the honks echoing in the ventilation system. But today? Nobody. Not even the clown. You’ve seen neither hide nor hair of any of the trolls since you embarked on this heart-to-heart mission. Hell, you haven’t even seen Rose around. Is there some federal holiday you don’t know about going on? Like, has everyone closed up shop to celebrate it?

Hello? Anybody? Anyone at all?

You’d pull out your phone and bug Rose for directions, but whoever designed this shithole of a game couldn’t be bothered to throw a little level variety into the mix. Instead, they decided to make the hallways virtually indistinguishable from one another. Dimly lit, steel paneled passages line the meteor, littered with haphazardly placed transporter pads, staircases, and defunct alien tech that have tripped you more times than you can count. Honestly, you couldn’t describe your location if you tried; it’d just be a rehash of every other linear hallway on the map.

You want to have a talk with whatever interior designer Skaia hired for its fucked up excuse of a game. You need to exchange _words_ , motherfucker.

And, alright. Maybe you just don’t want to face Rose’s inevitable smugness when she puts two and two together. You don’t think she has any right to talk, what with the drunken stunt she pulled last year after months of awkward lesbian tap-dancing around Kanaya, but Rose is anything but gracious in her shame. If she had to be subject to personal mortification, then by god she’s going to make this a family affair.

Karkat’s obviously out of the question for a number of reasons, the most important of which being the very thought makes your palms slick with sweat. This, of course, makes you unable to coherently type up a quick ‘hey scooby doo where are you’ message and send it off into literal cyberspace.

Yeah. That’s totally the main reason. Not because you’d be too embarrassed, nope.

And anyways, you’re pretty sure it’s Karkat’s so-called ‘Reading Hour’ to begin with, he almost always has it around this time. ‘Reading Hour’ is where he shuts off all of his communication devices, likely for the express purpose of preventing your incessant babbling from interrupting his daily intake of highblood/lowblood smut. You should probably take offense to the measure, but goddamn if the long-winded rants following your 150+ IM spam don’t more than make up for it. Still, it does little to help you out of your current predicament, hilarious though it may be.

Christ. Just where _is_ everybody?

You think you may have your answer when you hear a high-pitched cackle bounce off the walls. Your eyes widen with recognition. _Terezi._ That _has_ to be her, no one else giggles like a super villain on helium. You look up to the Mayor, who nods sharply. He points to your right, and you take off around the corner.

Soon enough, you see them doing…god knows what. ‘Them’ as in plural because wherever Terezi is, Vriska’s sure to follow, and vice versa. And ‘god knows what’ as in, why the pants blooming _fuck_ are they crowding around the lone vent on the ceiling? They’re dressed strangely (strange for them, anyways), which only adds to your confusion. Terezi’s sporting the same teal and maroon suit she’d worn when you first landed on the meteor, while Vriska’s donning a too large navy jacket and scarlet boots. They look like they just got off the bus from Comic-Con and are in the process of booking it to Bozo the clown’s birthday party. What the—

Shit. They’re roleplaying, aren’t they. You resist the urge to turn around. Steeling yourself, you walk forward unnoticed.

Vriska’s holding Terezi up by the armpits as they investigate the vent, straining to see the source of whatever scent her canine moirail’s caught wind of from behind the mop of black hair. For once, you can’t help but feel sorry for the Spiderbitch. A fleeting feeling, one that quickly fucks off into the distance once it gasps its first breath, but a feeling nonetheless. You don’t think Terezi’s ever so much as brushed that unruly nest, much less combed it, and it can’t be too pleasant inhaling the toxins it inevitably exudes. Your case only mounts as you spy orange and green gummygrubs trapped within the shaggy knots, curled and molding from exposure to the elements. Yuck.

For a troll so sensitive to smells, you’d think she’d be more cognizant of her own. Maybe she’s just gone scent blind to it after all this time. Who knows. You don’t (and don’t want to either).

“Redglare, you see anything?” Vriska says, chin tucked over her charge’s shoulder.

“Why no, Mindfang, I don’t _see_ anything! Rather amazing, what this whole ‘being blind’ thing entails,” Terezi says with a cackle.

“You know what I mean!” Vriska says. “Smell anything shiny, gold, and expensive?”

“All I _smell_ is the gross blueberry licorice of your impatience! If you’re going to flap your gums all day, why don’t you give me a push?”

“Bluh, fine! Excuse me for having the decency not to give you mouth to mouth with an air vent from the get go!”

With a roll of her eyes, Vriska readjusts her grip on Terezi’s love handles and pulls her up closer to the ceiling. Now equipped with better leverage, Terezi presses her nostrils against the cold steel with a hum of approval. She takes a big whiff, likely breathing in whatever equivalent of asbestos the meteor has to offer, and paws the metal with untrimmed fingernails.

In your unsolicited opinion, she’s getting more up close and personal with the thing than you’d want in ten life times. Anything for the sake of roleplaying, you guess.

A pause. She then calls out, “negative!” Both trolls sigh in exasperation.

“You sure there’s nothing in there?” Vriska says, craning her neck for a glimpse of whatever gremlin could be lurking in its depths.

Frowning, Terezi flattens her nose against the vent shaft and takes another sniff. For good measure, she further gives it a tentative lick. A heartbeat passes, and she pulls her head back in defeat. “Yeah, there’s nothing in there. We’ll have to try somewhere else.”

“Oh well,” Vriska says, floating back down to the ground with Terezi in tow. “That’s just the thrill of the hunt, I guess! Don’t worry, with my impeccable leadership and your unwavering snout, we’ll find our treasure in no time. Don’t you think?”

“Of course!” Terezi laughs, hopping to the floor once Vriska loosens her grasp. “Time is dead kids, after all. Nothing can stop Team Scourge once we put our minds to anything!”

She holds out two fingers, which Vriska meets with her own. They form a haphazard diamond, complete with twin shit-eating grins. You suppose it’s meant to represent a happy kumbaya of sorts, but their sharp fangs and sharper horns only serve the purpose of looking vaguely threatening.

If Karkat were here, you think he’d start gagging on the nigh obscene level of paleness wafting off the pair. You yourself find it a little much, but hey. As long as Terezi’s happy. Even if that makes the Spiderbitch happy in the process. Ugh.

Speak of the devil, Vriska decides to turn around before you can make yourself scarce. Her brow arches.

“Well, well, look what we have here. A trespasser and his mayoral sidekick. Haven’t you heard it’s rude to eavesdrop on private conversations, Dave?”

Terezi sneaks her head from behind Vriska. “Hey, cool kid! Mayor!” she says, waving her free hand.

You raise your hand in greeting. The Mayor takes a more enthusiastic approach, flapping his arm in return. The weight jostles your neck, but he otherwise manages to keep his balance as he exchanges pleasantries. Once finished, he resettles himself across your shoulders with an inquisitive blink.

“Hey TZ, Vris. Ain’t eavesdropping if y’all are in an open hallway,” you say, burying your hands in your pockets. “Or trespassing, for that matter. Not to get all up and communist on you, but it’s a free meteor.”

“Whatever. If you wanted to know what we were doing, you could’ve just asked,” Vriska says, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t have to stand there like a creep!”

“Sure thing. But consider this: that would require me to actually _want_ to know what you’re up to,” you say dryly. “Fortunately, my boredom hasn’t quite reached the level of ‘willfully interacting with Vriska Serket’ yet. If it ever does, you’ll know when I fling myself screaming off the meteor.”

“You, screaming? Oh, brother. You really _have_ been hanging out with Karkat too much,” Vriska says. “We don’t need more than one screamer, thanks. I can hear him yelling from across the place as is, I don’t need a deafening duet in the works too.”

“Vriska, I hardly think we’re ones to talk,” Terezi butts in, wrapping an arm around Vriska’s middle. She pauses to pluck the orange gummygrub from her hair and pop it into her mouth. Ew. “We’ve all been doing our own thing this past sweep. Outside weekly meetings, I mean. It’s not too surprising that Karkat’s rubbed off on him.” 

“Yeah, I guess. Still, I wouldn’t mind a little peace and quiet every now and then, you know? Is that too much to ask?”

“Probably.”

“Sigh.”

Vriska leans back against Terezi and hums, seating her arm in-between the conical horns. Pawing her way through Terezi’s mop, she picks out the green gummygrub caught above the ear. Double ew. She then brings it to her mouth to chew, a bit more delicately than Terezi’s unabashed gnashing of teeth, but still—it’s a piece of molding gelatin that gifts diarrhea like it’s Reese’s on Halloween. Ew x infinity and beyond.

Before they can get too comfortable and completely tune you out, you decide to cut to the chase.

“If you guys aren’t too busy over there, I’ve got a question.”

“Hmm?” Vriska straightens, pulling her weight from Terezi’s. You think you see unhappiness flash across the shorter troll’s face, but it’s gone before you can be sure. She’s back to her usual toothy grin within seconds, as if nothing had happened.

Huh. Maybe you’re seeing things?

“Earth to Strider!” Vriska says, snapping her fingers. “Was there something you wanted, or were you just looking to waste my valuable time?” Whoops.

“Yeah, no. It can’t be _that_ valuable if you’re spending the afternoon roleplaying,” you say.

“It’s not _just_ roleplaying, it’s _FLARPing_. God. Completely different things! Although, I guess we’re a little lacking on the ‘fatal’ department here on the meteor. It’d be counterproductive. Oh well. Now—what is it that you want?”

“Oh, right. I just wanted to know if you’ve seen Karkat?”

“Karkat?” Vriska blinks. She puts her chin in her hands, looking thoughtful. “What, has that loser gotten himself lost again?”

“Again?” Well, at least you know you’re not the only one getting turned around on this hunk of rock.

“We saw him earlier this morning,” Terezi pipes up.

“Oh, yeah! We were searching the vents near his block for treasure, then he slammed open his door all pissy and started yelling at us. Somebody’s not a morning person!”

“It _was_ pretty early,” Terezi says.

“Yeah, maybe. But still, he should be used to it by now.”

“True,” Terezi clicks her tongue. “We have to be ready for anything once we reach the new session.”

“It’s okay. Even if _some_ people can’t pull their weight, we’re more than able to pick up the slack.”

“Guys,” you interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose with a sigh. God, you hate talking with the pair nowadays. Inseparable as they may be, they seem to forget that others exist outside their own bubble. “All I wanna know is if you know where Karkat is.”

“After he stopped screaming, Karkat grumbled something about going to the common room,” Terezi says. “Then he told us ‘shithive maggot brained nooksuckers’ not to follow him.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Karkat,” you say, anticipation rising. Finally, a lead!

“Psh, like we would,” Vriska says with a snort. “Though honestly, it sounded like he needed some of our expertise. He got himself lost and had to turn back a few times before he found it. Talk about pathetic!”

God. Does she _ever_ shut up? Annoyance threatens to mar your excitement, but you know better than to take Vriska’s bait. It never ends well for anyone, least of all you, and you don’t have time for this shit to begin with. Plus, you have one more favor to ask, embarrassing as it may be. Best to get on with it.

“Yeah, yeah, ragging on Karkat aside—how do I, uh. Get to the common room from here?” You’d scratch your neck if you could, do anything with your hands to alleviate the building awkwardness, but the Mayor’s too busy clinging to you to reach. You settle on fingering your pockets’ excess lint.

“Oh, god. You don’t know how to get around here, either?” Vriska palms her forehead in exaggerated exasperation.

“Well Vriska, that’s kind of the point of a question. Getting answers to shit you don’t know,” you say, gritting your teeth.

“Yeah, sure, fine. But—”

“The transporter pad’s down three hallways to your left,” Terezi says, cutting in. She puts a hand on Vriska’s stomach, sharing a knowing glance with her before turning back to you. “Once you reach it, you’ll be in the common area.”

Thank god for Terezi. Vriska always knows how to push your buttons, but instead of ‘pushing,’ it’s more like a series of aerial punches to the gut. Conversations with her just leave you feeling frustrated and nauseated, and you’re ready to get your happy ass out of here. Judging by the anxious pulls on your hair, the Mayor’s eager to bounce as well. And goddamn if you’re willing to deny the Mayor anything.

“Alright, cool,” you say. “Thanks TZ. Vriska. See y’all later.” And hopefully not a minute too soon. You nod to both in turn, and twist around to follow the route Terezi laid out for you.

 “See you, Dave!” Terezi calls after you, while Vriska crows, “don’t get lost!”

“Fucking finally,” you say after you turn the corner. “Free of the Scourge Sisters’ clutches at last. Halle-fuckin-lujah.” The Mayor nods in agreement. You love Terezi, really, but the pair’s nothing short of a handful when in cahoots. And they’re _always_ in cahoots.

Fortunately, navigating the labyrinth of hallways is easier now that you’ve some idea where you’re going. It’s as quiet and dark as ever of course, but nothing can damper the anxious excitement coursing through your veins at this point. You’re scared of telling Karkat—there’s no doubt about that—but it will be a huge relief off your shoulders to have it all out in the open. Even more still, it will be a _literal_ relief off your shoulders; the Mayor is dead set on getting you to do this, whether you like it or not, and the weight pressing on your muscles is a constant reminder of the directive he’s issued you. That, and how heavy carapacians are in general.

Seriously. Just where does he store all those pounds? How much flab does that dirty old blanket hide? You’d ask, but you think that’d border on inappropriate conduct, even between bros as close as you. You just don’t ask a dude how much he’s packing. Case closed, class dismissed. Basic courtesy. That in mind, you choose to confine your complaints to mere grunts and winces. Choice swears color your internal monologue whenever his feet clink-clank against your clavicle, but you bite hard on your tongue.

At long last, the end of the hallway looms in the distance. Your breath quickens. _There!_ The Mayor seems to understand your need for urgency and latches himself tighter, allowing you to dart toward the charcoal gray pad without restraint. He yelps when you flash-step forward, long legs propelling you both at an unnatural rate.

“Here we are, Mayor,” you say, stopping short of the pad itself. “Transporter, USA.” Crisscrossed with enough stars to cultivate an occultist’s wet dream, the pad projects a soft white light and illuminates the darkness. It glimmers off your shades and bathes your clothes silver. The Mayor loosens his death grip on your neck once he deems it safe, and you see his black exoskeleton sharing a similar fate as it reflects the brightness.

Finally. After what took for-fucking-ever, you’ve reached the transporter. And beyond the transporter lays Karkat. Your guts clench with anticipation. Beyond him lays… Well, you’re not sure. You’ve got hopes (mostly concerns), but there’s only one way to discern the truth. But first, there’s one thing you have to take care of.

“Hey, Mayor?”

The Mayor pats your ear, letting you know he’s listening. It tickles the outer shell and you can’t help but snicker. Well, fuck. That proves to be a mistake when the little gremlin finds that _funny,_ and he keeps wiggling his claws like he’s goddamn Don Turtelli with Vernon Fenwick at his mercy. You resist the urge to break into full-blown giggles.

“M-mayor, stop that,” you snort. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation here.”

The Mayor, thankfully, relents, but not without laughing in his own wispy sort of way. You cup a hand against your ear to prevent the incitation of further shenanigans.

“Like I was saying before you broke out the torture fingers: I think maybe we should split up from here on out. Not that you haven’t been all kinds of helpful, because lord fuckin’ _knows_ you have been, but. Uh.” You thumb your nose and stare down at the pad. “You’re the best wingman a guy could ask for, but I. Think I should do this on my own, y’know? And I _promise,_ cross my heart and hope to die, stick forty needles in my eye—wow I just realized how fucked up that kid’s rhyme is what the hell—that I won’t chicken out. Like, I’m a Chicken McNugget alright. 100% certified non-poultry. I’m the Frankenstein abomination of processed fats and wholesome diabetes, no fried fowl about me. Nuh-uh. Nope. None whatsoever. So, like…I swear this isn’t me trying to get the hell outta dodge. I just want to…do this on my own.”

And, honestly, you’re just not sure you could bear the embarrassment of the Mayor seeing this shit show go up in flames. But he doesn’t need to know that.

Regardless, the Mayor seems to agree with your conclusion. After patting your hair one last time, he slithers down your back with the proficiency of an adept chimpanzee. Or, wait. Maybe a monkey? Which is the better climber again? Fuck if you know. You guess they’re the same in the end: scorch marks wrought by Skaia’s meteor shower of doom. Who cares whether one has a tail, they’re all dead anyways. PETA can bite you.

What matters is that the Mayor climbs down with ease, okay. End of story.

That said, the Mayor hops to the floor once he’s a foot above ground. He pats the non-existent dust off his person and stretches, likely loosening up the muscles he hadn’t pulverized your clavicle with. (Shit still hurts but fuck if you’re going to tell him that). Satisfied with his exercises, the Mayor then turns around and nods.

“Thanks, Mayor,” you say. “I owe you one.” You duck down and hold your hand out. Quick on the uptake, the Mayor claps his palm against yours in the sickest high-five to ever grace paradox space. He then tugs you forward with little concern for his own being. Startled, you’re unprepared when he wraps his small arms as far as they’ll go around your torso and buries his face in your chest. You stagger, off-kilter and legs buckling, but manage to regain your balance before crushing him into a carapace pancake.

“Thanks, lil buddy,” you say, quieter this time. Squeezing tight, you return his embrace and smother your nose in his fabrics. You stay like that for a moment, relishing the warmth radiating off his small body.

Goddamn, do you love the Mayor. You’re not sure how a mute NPC can carry so much emotional weight and baggage, but fuck if he ever does.

Still, you know you have to start booking it already. The librarian’s giving you an evil look from across the aisle and you have to hand back this title before the library closes, re: Karkat moves his happy ass somewhere else. You pull back from the Mayor, who gives you a thumbs up. Smiling, you push off the floor and steady yourself.

“Oh, um. And also, one last thing.” You bite the inside of your cheek. The Mayor tilts his head and looks up questioningly at you. “Sorry to ask you for so many favors in one day, like godfuckingdamn I’m heaving all this unnecessary shit on your full as fuck plate. But, uh. Could you hang tight here for a while and make sure nobody comes through?”

Fit as a fiddle, the Mayor stiffens and stands straight. A hand rockets to his brow in salute, with resolute eyes twinkling behind the cover of his hood.

Fuck yeah. You knew you could rely on the Mayor.

“Alright, Mayor. Peace out,” you say. Extending your middle and index fingers, you tap your forehead and salute back. “Here’s goes nothing, I guess.”

You turn around and step aboard the pad, taking a deep breath when the light shudders and flares bright. The last thing you see before it whizzes you away is the Mayor waving his hand, and then darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On that note, your own body should be dubbed a medical marvel at this point. Any thought that finding Karkat alone would ease your nerves was thrown out the window the second you spied his black hair sneaking over the upholstery. Your heart’s since made home in your mouth, feet thrown up on the couch and a beer can in its hand like it owns the place, and its veins throb throughout your chest at a rate that can’t possibly be healthy.

[ _I never was much for conversation, I never know quite what to say.  
I don’t have a very good explanation for why my head glitches this way._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)

\--

As it turns out, Karkat’s holed up on the sofa chair that’s seen better days. Legs swung over the ratty armrest and arms tucked firmly against his torso, he’s too immersed in whatever he’s reading to notice the transporter’s soft buzz as you materialize in the common room. You’re pretty sure Karkat’s read that small whale he calls a book twelve times by now, but who are you to judge. Not like you’re any better at this point. With the meteor’s monotony, you’ve all landed yourselves on a 24/7 reality TV Land, where anything and everything even remotely entertaining is marathon material.

Who knew three years with nothing to do or responsibilities to tend to could be so goddamn _boring_.

Ennui aside, Karkat is now mere feet away after hours of searching. Lo and behold, the Scourge Sisters weren’t screwing with you. You guess miracles really are possible. Somebody alert the clown. Except don’t, because fuck that guy.

On that note, your own body should be dubbed a medical marvel at this point. Any thought that finding Karkat alone would ease your nerves was thrown out the window the second you spied his black hair sneaking over the upholstery. Your heart’s since made home in your mouth, feet thrown up on the couch and a beer can in its hand like it owns the place, and its veins throb throughout your chest at a rate that can’t possibly be healthy. The ensuing sweat dribbling down your forehead does nothing to complement your façade, and, well.

You’ve never felt less cool. You always feel a little less cool around Karkat if you’re honest, but you can’t deny you’ve craved that more and more as time’s gone on. There’s a lack of expectation there that allows you to be freer around the grouchy troll, feel more comfortable in your skin without the lurking presumption that the Strider brand _must_ represent the face of cooldom. Karkat can see through you without batting an eyelash, so there’s not much use in keeping up the charade anyways.

But right here, right now, you wouldn’t mind a little stoicism as you break from the transporter’s pad. Just enough so you don’t fuck this up right from the get go.

Some part of you regrets shooing the Mayor off. His warm hand and unshakeable support would be more than welcome right now. The other part of you ninja kicks that part in the face. Shit, you wouldn’t be able to look the carapacian in the eyes for _weeks_ if he bore witness to whatever the hell’s about to transpire. So, yeah. Best he’s not here in the long run.

Not trusting yourself to walk, you opt for flying past Rose’s ludicrous bouquets and over to the corner where Karkat finds himself nestled. A little showy, sure, but your legs seem to have swapped muscle for jelly in the time since you woke up this morning. The chance of tripping over the world’s tiniest dust bunny is an unnecessary risk at this point in the game.

Karkat’s in the process of turning pages when you float behind him. Your heart’s still a deadbeat bastard freeloading it up in your mouth, but you manage to swallow at least some of your nerves after taking a steady breath. Casual, just be casual. You’ve talked to Karkat thousands of times before, you can do this.

Oh, who are you kidding, you can’t do this.

But fuck if you’re going to do it anyways. You reach over and jostle his shoulder.

“Yo, Karka—”

“AUGH JEGUS FUCK!”

Annnnd there he goes. Arms and legs flailing, Karkat falls from his roost. But no matter what Mama Bird says, he sure as shit ain’t ready to fly, and winds up sprawled across the floor with a resounding _thump_. To make matters worse, he’d decided to sit in one of the few areas uncovered by ugly ass carpet, and you wince in sympathy as his head cracks against the steel.

Whoops. You retract your arm from the scene of the crime.

“What is WITH you people and scaring me today!” Karkat barks, clutching his black hair with zeal. “Is it just ‘Annoy the Taintchafing Fuck Out of Karkat Day’? Are we on holiday? Did I miss out on the festivities already? Where, oh _where_ , is the creator, so I can thank them for all their _generous_ contributions by pissing on _every goddamn thing they hold dear_.”

You shake your head with a snort. What a drama troll. You spy a flash of red in his irises, near-fucking-identical to the bright scarlet resting behind your shades, and resist the urge to smile. Barely—it’s a hard fought battle against those quirking lips, thousands of neurons died in the trenches that is your mouth—but you manage to nip it in the bud before you aggravate said troll even more. Bristling, Karkat fixes you with a glare that wouldn’t intimidate a surly kitten, much less your cool ass self, but you decide to indulge his histrionics anyways and throw your hands up.

“First: Cool it on the hair thing, man. Your ‘do might be a jungle unto itself, but that’s straight up follicle deforestation,” you say, wiggling your fingers in the still air. “Second: That would require a helluva lotta apple juice, and goddamn, I’m not sure I can part with that much of my stash. Do you know how _hard_ it is to brew the sweet nectar of the gods? Stoke it, craft it, conceive a fucking masterpiece out of juice, phosphate, and calcium citrate? Well, okay, not that hard at all now that Rose has cracked the sylladex code, but the principle still stands. What’s mine is mine, bitch. And last but most definitely least, third: Scourge Sisters up to no good again?”

Somehow, your audience pegs you with an even crabbier scowl. Score. Karkat: 0, Dave: Infinity plus one. Fuck yeah. No longer knowing what to do with your hands, you lower your arms, which swing gawkily by your sides.

Whoever said you don’t fucking epitomize social competency is a goddamn liar.

“When are they not,” Karkat grumbles after a beat, loosening his grip with abject reluctance. He pulls back with a wince as a few black strands catch on untrimmed claws, but otherwise keeps his back flat against the floor in defeat. Defeat or defiance. Often depends on the day when it comes to Karkat. “And I’m not even going to begin trying to understand whatever the fuck you just said, my thinkpan’s been through enough damage today as is. But yeah, Terezi and the Spiderbitch—excuse me, Spider _8itch_ —were fucking around my block earlier like a couple of drunken trunkbeasts searching for, and I quote, ‘hidden treasure.’ Nevermind the fact that they’re up to their ganderbulbs in boonbucks. If they’re bored enough to bother me, Vriska must’ve hit a dead end with her plans. Emphasis probably on dead, knowing her. Which, usually, would be fucking fantastic to knock her ballooning ego down a few pegs, but not when they apparently decide to involve _me_ in their insipid bullshit.”

“Flighty broads. They’re the shit-filled cornucopia that just keeps on giving,” you agree, clapping a balled fist against your palm. “Not gonna lie though, I wouldn’t be too opposed to the Spiderbitch running herself ragged on a wild goose chase. If this dinky ass piece of flying rock’s ever even seen a penny, much less a leprechaun’s potted gold, I’ll eat my cape. Season that fucker with some ginger, a dash of paprika, and tenderize those fibers like a well-done Salisbury steak. Except not, because fuck Vriska. I’m not sacrificing jack shit for the likes of her.”

Karkat snorts with laughter at this, causing your intestines to stir up a conga line adjacent your spleen. He quickly regains his composure, forcing his lips into their usual toothy frown, but you saw that smile. You saw it.

“Vriska chasing after a feathered honkbird _would_ be pretty fucking funny,” he says, tapping a claw to his cheek. “Maybe she’ll chase it off the goddamn meteor and into oblivion, then we won’t have to put up with her overbearing bossiness day in and day out. Fuck, now I know how the others felt during SGRUB.” His eyes cast downward for a brief second, glazing over. He then gives himself a vigorous shake and refocuses on your floating frame. “But additionally: Eat your cape anyways, you might become moderately less obnoxious without it billowing in the wind all the time. I don’t even know _how_ it billows in the wind, we’re in fucking space. There _is_ no wind! Stupid god tier reality bending bullshit.”

“If Darth Vader’s cape can blow in space, my kickass threads can too,” you say automatically, cocking a smirk. Still, a nagging thought catches in the recesses of your mind, and your lips flatten as it persists. You know you’ve got to reign in this whole conversation, and soon, if you want to confess your feelings in relative privacy. The Mayor can’t block access to the room all day. But you can’t ignore Karkat’s own troubles, either. “How do you feel about that, anyways?”

“Feel about what?” Karkat’s bushy brows furrow. “Skaia’s endless capacity to annoy the ever loving shit out of me? What with its constant reminders that hey, I’m not an immortal fuckwit because somehow managing to avoid getting my sorry ass killed was a _bad_ thing? Because I’m still pretty fucking pissed, let me tell you.”

“Naw, not that,” you say, nudging his bent knee with your shoe. He immediately retracts it, trading confusion for irritation. “And btw, pretty sure the immortal thing just means we can’t die in stupid ways, only heroic or just ones—whatever that means, anyways. Like if John croaked all because he got the munchies for some PBJs, that kind of thing. Don’t think we live too much longer than a regular old person would.” You shrug your shoulders. “What I mean’s like, how d’you feel about Vriska and Terezi scheming it up? Or at least, they seem to. Dunno what else those girls could be planning. But throughout our session, leadership was like…your thing. Your very loud, very in-our-face thing. Don’t you feel weird they’re pulling some sorta fait accompli shit right under your nose?”

Karkat’s gaze hardens. After a moment, he barks a laugh, one that rings hollow in the silence of the common room.

“Me, a leader? Fucking hysterical, Dave!” His curled fists and deepening scowl suggest otherwise, but you don’t contradict him. “Nobody listened to me to begin with. When they did, shit hit the whirling device so hard, it broke through the ceiling and brought the whole damn hive down! Dozens died, no dismay fluids were shed. Need I remind you that rushing Kanaya with the frog gave your whole universe cancer? Did you forget that punitive, abso-fucking-lutely _imperative_ detail? Because I haven’t!” He growls. “Somehow, this godforsaken game’s attempts to rub my thinkpan raw like a fucking cheese grater have left me with enough cells to torture myself with the knowledge that I screwed up big time. I screwed up with such royalty that I might as well be dubbed Emperor of Shitslyvania. Behold my kingdom, marvel in the majesty of its dead inhabitants. Prostrate yourself before the all mighty Vantas and his incredible failure!”

At some point, he had raised himself to his elbows, and now his face is close enough to fog your shades with choked pants. A heartbeat passes, then two, then four. On the fifth, Karkat’s ears flatten, and the fire dies from his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, far quieter. “Didn’t mean to get in your ‘grill’ like that.” Red spittle also decorates your chin with the generosity of a mouthy alpaca, but you choose not to bring attention to this fact. “Just. Vriska can do whatever the hell she wants, be that wiping her nook with a barbed frond nub or throwing herself off the meteor and saving us all the trouble. Me prancing around as the leader only led to shit storm after fucking shit storm, so consider me retired.” With that, he lowers himself back onto the ground. His cheek brushes against the webbed steel, face turned away from yours, and goddamn if your heart doesn’t constrict at the sight.

That, and question why he doesn’t just climb back onto the sofa chair. Karkat’s logic never ceases to elude you.

“Hey, come on dude,” you say, wrapping your palm around his upturned shoulder. He grumbles in protest, burrowing his face further into the metal nest he’s concocted, but you persevere. “Dude. Karkat. Karkat, Karkat, Karkat. Earth to Karkat, requesting transmission. Please respond, Houston’s on fucking fire and the police are snorting cocaine in the closet. Mayday, mayday. Come in, Karkat, you’re my only hoe—”

“WHAT!” He shouts, finally. “WHAT THE SEED FONDLING FUCK DO YOU WANT, YOU FLATULENCE BREATHING SPLEENFOWL!” Twitching eyes flare red as his face contorts like an angry sock puppet, but you consider it a success nonetheless as he ends his mouth to mouth with the floor and jerks his head upward. Excellent.

“And we have contact! Hold the applause, folks, yours truly has begun communicating with the alien species Dickicus Pontrollicus.” You give a mock bow in midair, twirling your cape in the process. This seems to only aggravate your charge further, but hey. A pissed Karkat’s better than a depressed one, and you are not about to let this fallacious beat down of emotional prosperity continue without protest. “Bro, seriously though. Nobody’s holding you accountable for any of the bizarre ass shit that went down,” you say. “You’ve gotta let that crap go.” He knits his brows together and opens his mouth to object, the slight tremor of a ‘but’ on the tip of his tongue, but you cut him off before he can get the word in.

“I mean yeah, I know that’s hella harder said than done, but like. You taking sole responsibility for everything that went wrong doesn’t help anyone. It doesn’t bring the others back to life, it doesn’t magic up the clown’s mirthful messiahs to rain ‘motherfuckin’ miracles’ down on our ungrateful lives. All it does is rob others’ agency and make you feel shitty. Like, last I checked, you’re one guy. You didn’t force the trolls to start getting their Charles Manson on, they decided for themselves. Sure, you may have messed up with the frog, but you’re not taking credit for the good stuff you did too. You kept eleven prepubescent trolls hotwired to a murder happy culture alive throughout your whole session—which was what, a month?—and managed to make a new universe in the process. That’s pretty badass, man. All we had to do was stick it out for one day doing our own thing before hitting the reset button and blowing ourselves the fuck up.”

Silence greets your monologue. Karkat’s just staring up at you, mouth agape without any of his usual flurry or bluster. As the quiet stretches on, you tug at your collar, feeling suddenly stifled. You wonder what else to say. What else there is _to_ say.

“So…yeah, there’s my two cents. Down ‘em as pocket change or nab that Happy Bunny sticker from the vending machine, your choice.”

You dig your hands into your pockets, beyond self-conscious. You don’t _think_ you messed up, but fuck if this whole ‘sincerity’ thing ain’t unnatural to you after a decade’s worth of indoctrination into the cult of all things irony and smuppet. Goddamn. Why isn’t Karkat _saying_ anything? Did he become mute the second you took your eyes off him? What’s his deal? Paradox space be damned, you’re beginning to devise a plan to evaporate into thin air and hit the first tube leaving Meteor Station as long as it means squirreling your way out of this situation.

Thankfully, though, Rose’s eldritch gods appear to take pity on you in time. Soon after you’ve decided to take up roost on a lone meteor this side of the Gamma quadrant (you’ll apologize to the Mayor later), a soft chuckle breaks through the quiet and recaptures your attention.

“How do you always manage to piss me off one minute then cheer me up the next?” Karkat murmurs, almost to himself, as he runs his fingers through wiry hair. You spy a small smile forming on his lips—not that you were checking out his lips or anything, nosiree, that slanderous Robin Hood’s up to no good again—and your heart thumps against your ribcage.

“What can I say? It’s a gift, dude,” you say, allowing yourself to smile back. “And a good magician never reveals his secrets. Houdini has nothing on this shit.”

“Magic is bogus gobbledygook meant for piss baby wigglers and you fucking know it,” Karkat retorts, but his tone lacks bite and the tension has long left his body. He may not believe everything you had to say, but you _think_ he at least appreciated your inane drivel, which ain’t something you can say every day. So long as he’s not beating himself up over this, that’s fine by you.

“You might want to take that up with Rose,” you say, clasping your hands behind your head and kicking your legs up on a nonexistent table.

“I’ll pass,” he says dryly. “I’d like to keep up my streak of not getting my ass handed to me by the powers that be, if you don’t mind.”

“And if I do mind?”

“Then I’d politely tell you to go whip yourself up a piping hot nutrition plateau of ‘fuck you,’ with sides of ‘shut up’ and ‘piss off.’ Afterwards, I’d suggest skipping the actual digestion part and simply shove them up your spinal crevice like the hipster tool that you are.”

“The disrespect I’m paid,” you whine, throwing up your right arm with mock despair. “Just the entrée, really? Not even a three course complementary meal? You lying cad. The brochure told me Motel à la Vantas offered the best dishes money could buy, and here I am, out in the cold. Starving as an orphan with nothing but the clothes on my back and the food up my ass to claim home to. Prepare yourself, Karkat, I’m leaving you the worst Yelp review ever. One star motherfucker, read it and weep.”

“Keep your barkfiends to yourself, Strider! No verbal evisceration can deface my recreational hive stem’s character. If it can withstand a steady stream of my own day-to-day bullshit, then absolutely nothing else can tarnish its reputation as the most repulsive institution known to this or any other galaxy,” he says, as if it’s a point of pride. In troll society, it probably is, now that you think about it. Weird ass little gremlins. “People win the fucking Troll Olympics with how fast it causes them to projectile vomit. Little do they know, their gastric secretions only further decorate its sordid appeal. Read _that_ and wallow in your own dismay fluids!”

“Well fuck that. You cantankerous skank you, ruining my chances with Internet glory. You’ve disparaged your own establishment’s repute before I can so much as troll the comment’s section,” you say with a sigh. “You’re killing me here, Karkat.”

“If I were culling you, you’d have a sickle lodged up your human urethra already. Give me some credit.”

“Wow, violent. That’s it, no more Biology Tuesday lessons for the trolls. I’m putting in a complaint to Rose.”

Not too long into the first year, Rose had taken it upon herself to design a series of makeshift workshops where everyone would get together to be ‘multicultural.’ That included biology lessons, historical escapades, cultural discussions, and whatever else you all could muster up to pass as education. Of course, ‘education’ was used as loose a definition as possible, seeing how one of your own workshops had consisted solely of describing indie bands that nobody else had ever heard of and nothing else. You think Rose devised the things for the purpose of experiencing the public school system her home schooling had deprived her of, but in the end, everyone’s managed to get into it. Doesn’t matter what species you are, the love of blithering on about personal interests to captive audiences transcends universes.

“Trolls are violent by nature. Sue me,” Karkat says with a shrug.

You choke back a snort, knowing that’s a goddamn lie if you’ve ever heard one. Guy talks so big, but you know he’s a big softie at heart—an even bigger one than John, really. Not that you’d ever tell him that, of course. He’d start shrieking and you’re not willing to test his capacity to break the sound barrier.

“So, what’s up?”

“Huh?”

“I said: what’s up, _‘dog,’_ ” Karkat says with a huff, curling his fingers into air-quotation marks as he glares up at you from the cold steel. “Were you looking for me earlier? Before we landed ourselves in an endless circle jerk of inane banter, as per usual.”

Oh, right. You were supposed to be laying your heart bare here, confess your romantic interest in him and serve it up straight on a silver platter. Or, not so straight, you guess. More like an Arby’s curly fry. One that’s performing an acrobatic pirouette into a fryer. You may not be drowning in oily fats or bubbling grease, but it sure as fuck feels like it under Karkat’s watchful eye. And the longer you remain quiet, the wider said eye seems to get.

You deflect.  

“You gonna get up, dude?” Despite all being said and done, you dodge the question. You tell yourself you just need some more time is all, knowing full well that time is of the essence (and also not a thing). Karkat’s right ear twitches.

“Fuck you, no. This floor’s great. Me and my scrawny gray ass aren’t parting with it and nobody can fucking stop me.”

“’Kay, suit yourself. If you and your buttocks are married to it, well shit. Who am I to break y’all up? You’ve had your ups and downs, sure—maybe it chipped your tooth that one time you fell, but in the end, true love conquers all,” You say, raising a finger to your cheek as if to wipe a tear away. Karkat looks on unimpressed. “Ain’t no amount of Rachels is gonna separate that rawboned rump from its sweet, sweet union with the floor. Put a ring on that fucker, ‘till death do y’all part.”

A moment passes, then:

“Ugh, now I feel dirty,” Karkat complains. “You’ve ruined a perfectly good floor. Look at it, it has anxiety.” He palms his face, shaking it in despair. “Your jaw just unhinged like a snake and out surged a stream of verbal vomit the likes of which I’ve never seen before, defiling its surface beyond comprehension. It was fucking incredible. Truly a tale for the ages. Historians will look back on it and weep, sobbing over the floor’s wasted potential and broken dreams. What did it do to you, Dave? What did this poor, unsuspecting structural platform do to necessitate such an egregious display of behavior?”

 “Ain’t my fault it didn’t pay its child support,” you say, not missing a beat. “It was months overdue and the bastard had it coming. Poor little floor-lings have things to do and bills to pay and I’m not about to let Suzy go hungry all because this here floor didn’t get off its lazy ass to pitch in.”

“Who the fuck is Suzy and why is she married to a floor?”

“Some questions are better left unanswered, Karkat.”

“Is that why you didn’t answer mine earlier?” You blink, stilling in the air. What—oh.

You’re caught off guard, but either way, Karkat doesn’t give you the chance to respond. Instead, he pulls himself up to his knees for the first time in over—wow, twenty minutes? How the fuck have twenty minutes passed? Maybe you’re onto something with this ‘time is an illusion’ bullshit—and winces. His limbs are stiff and creaky from lack of movement, but that doesn’t stop him from straightening with a soft _pop_ of protest from his joints. He then ducks under your floating legs with a growl and proceeds to paw at the upholstery beneath you.

“Move the fuck over, you hedonistic halfwit. You’re hogging the sofa.”

Wordless, you shift aside, allowing Karkat to clamber up the chair. With a grateful huff, he resumes his seat and attempts to get comfortable on the world’s most uncomfortable piece of furniture. Meanwhile, you’re left to collect your thoughts. Your feet sink to the floor.

How do you broach this subject? How do you open up and say ‘hey I like you please go out with me kthxbai’ without making a total ass of yourself? Not that you aren’t already one but goddamn. You need a fucking manual for this shit and you’re pretty sure Skaia’s not about to draw up a 101.

As it would seem, your concerns are for naught as your voice decides to bypass your brain and opt for ribbing. Again.

“What was that about you and your ‘scrawny gray ass’ not parting with the floor?”

Fuck. Sometimes it feels like your mouth’s entrenched in a cycle of stupidity with no chance of reprieve or completion. You’re seriously going to have to make this up to the Mayor.

“I terminated that contract on the specific grounds of Clause G Section B32. It says fuck you, that’s why.” Karkat stretches, further cracking his joints and hurling his body toward eventual arthritis. “Now, is there a reason why you’re pivoting like a ballerina sick with explosive oral diarrhea? Or did you just decide this morning that shitting from one end wasn’t enough for the day?”

Ouch. Straight to the point.

Now comfortable (or at least as comfortable as one can get on that chair), Karkat looks you over with an arched brow. Despite his harsh words, you know he’s concerned—it’s written all over his face. Whenever he gets worried, Karkat gives off various signals, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find comfort in them. His overbite becomes more prominent, worrying chapped lips with too sharp fangs. You know they often bleed as a result. His forehead creases, like he’s trying to see something in the distance, and his ears flatten and curve sideways. And of course, his eyes are always wide and expressive, showcasing emotions you’ve long denied behind black plastic.

Karkat’s giving off all the telltale signs, likely wondering what the fuck is going on with you right now. You’re not even sure yourself, at this point. You can’t help but squirm under his gaze, which only raises both brows, and fuck fuck _fuck_ he knows you’re acting weird. Weird even for you, that is.

You open your mouth, then close it, words dying on your tongue. You don’t know what to say. That in of itself is scary.

Luckily for you, you don’t have to. Karkat shifts aside, squeezing himself snug into a corner of the chair. Giving you a meaningful look, he tilts his head to the left.

“Sit down,” Karkat says. For good measure, he further pats the freed space. Inviting you to share. Your face heats up.

“But—”

“Sit your ass down here before I change my mind,” he huffs.

With such stellar encouragement, you oblige.

It’s a tight squeeze, despite the sofa’s overall size. All the tighter because you’re trying to give your legs a healthy distance from his. You wriggle and push, digging yourself deep into the corner like you’re trying to dig yourself out of this situation. It’s funny in a sense, because at the start of the trip, you doubt there would have been any problem shoving the pair of you malnourished fucks in. You were both skinny twigs, veering on unhealthy statures, what with his reluctance to eat throughout his session and your, well. ‘Neglect,’ as Rose would say. But with time (and excessive nagging), you put on weight and filled out some as you pushed each other to eat better. And you’re happy with that development, you really are in the long run.

You just wish there was more breathing space between your thigh and his right now.

If Karkat notices your fidgetiness, he chooses not to comment. Instead, he grips the sleeve of his sweater, rubbing his thumb into the soft material. After a few tense seconds, he twists around to face you, frown deepening as he trains his eyes on yours. You gulp.

“Dave, spit it out,” Karkat says with finality. “No more dodging, sidestepping, or beating around the proverbial bush like it’s the harbinger of the apocalypse. We’ve already had two between us and said shrub is getting fucking dizzy. What’s wrong?”

You freeze.

“I—”

Your breath stills.

This close up, you notice how his yellow sclera gleams in the light, unblinking and unwavering as he squares you with a steady stare. Your skin crawls from its intensity. It’s as if thousands of ants are swarming your body, burying it in their immense numbers, and your frame stiffens under their weight. After a few heartbeats pass, you turn away from him and duck your head low. You favor the sight of your kneecaps, grasping them by your palms with tense fingers as nerves devour you from within. Your hands clench, knuckles popping from the strength you apply, and your fingernails dig deep into your trousers. Karkat watches on, silent.

“I, um.”

Christ. You’re not sure what the fuck is wrong with you.

You’d thought you were ready for this, you really had. The Mayor had given you all the encouragement you’d thought you’d need to push back against your fears. But although your shades sit tight atop your nose, you feel as if nothing can hide from Karkat’s gaze. From your own emotions. From wherever the fuck Bro’s spirit lurks. You feel vulnerable and exposed in a way you’ve never felt before, not even when spilling your heart out to Rose about your sexuality issues.

With her, you’d known rejection was an impossibility; with Karkat, it almost feels like an inevitability.

“I’m—”

You’re suddenly hyper aware of your body’s movements. Or, more accurately, its lack thereof. Your throat’s closing up, collapsing upon itself as anxiety overtakes oxygen. Veins pulse and throb, pumping much needed blood everywhere but your brain, and ring with such vigor in your ears that they drown out the sound of Karkat’s breathing. Your jaw refuses to slacken, to allow any noise to pass your lips, and your mind is left to flounder.

Why can’t you say it? Why can’t you say three little words: ‘I like you?’ They’re not some unknown dialect foreign to your tongue. You’ve said each individually before, millions upon millions of times across your many verbose monologues and loquacious dialogues. But right here, right now, the sentence sticks like a stubborn bur, caught deep within your larynx. And you don’t know what the fuck to do.

“It’s like—”

Your head feels light. Cold as if you were dunked in the Atlantic and hauled up by the britches, left to dry out like salmon on the hull of a fishing boat. Except that boat’s heading straight for the eyewall of the hurricane, missing safety by miles as it’s ravaged by wind and storm. The wood is creaking, the mast is in two. The paint itself is peeling, the very same poor old Johnny the cabin boy finished hours before. Everyone’s abandoned ship, even the captain because fuck the Titanic and fuck James Cameron, it’s every man for himself out there. And woman, and every other gender under the sun. Let’s face it, a pirate doesn’t give a shit who you are so long as you can scrub a deck or work a sail. Wait, wasn’t this supposed to be about a fishing boat? Oh well. Everyone’s long abandoned ship, regardless of whatever the fuck kind of ship it is, but the salmon’s still aboard. It’s flipping and flopping, choking on oxygen its shitty little gills can’t process, and it has nobody but the storm for company. Which is pretty fucking terrible company, seeing as it’s shattering the boat to splinters while the fish is on it. Either way, the salmon keeps trying to hop its way over to the edge, try to make its way back to the ocean so it can see its mom and pop and brothers and sisters again. If Finding Nemo taught you anything, it’s that fish have a _ton_ of fucking siblings. That is, if they don’t get eaten by asshole barracudas. But for this particular salmon, it’s got a huge fucking family and it’s not about to leave them behind. So it pumps its fins, determined to gain momentum, and then—

THWUMP.

Startled, a pound to your back jumpstarts your lungs. Remembering their bodily functions, they appear to come to the brilliant conclusion that hey, breathing’s not such a terrible idea! Let’s try that again. So you inhale sharply, filling your body with oxygen, and choke and splutter as it trickles down your throat. You raise a hand to your heaving chest, desperate to get your breathing under control. The original strike has long smoothed into a chain of rough pats, easing the oxygen’s path as sweet, sweet air tumbles into your lungs. Upon regaining some semblance of control over your faculties, you attempt to take stock of things.

Well. That was. Something.

Your shades are askew. Black dots dance in front of your eyes as a result, spawned by sudden light bleaching your retinas white. And drool dribbles down your chin with the same generosity the mouthy alpaca had bequeathed to Karkat earlier. Speaking of. You turn your head, wiping the saliva off carelessly with your hand. An alarmed Karkat returns your look, hair bristling as he continues to pat down your back like your life depends on it. To him, it probably does.

“Dave? Dave! Holy shit, are you okay? You stopped breathing and I thought you were choking on something. I don’t know on _what_ , I didn’t see you eat anything, but you were probably chewing those confectionary bubble strips again and I didn’t notice. Were you chewing them? Wait, fuck that doesn’t matter. Just—are you okay? Should I get Rose? Fuck I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d freak out. Do you need help? Fuck! Of course you do, shit. What should I—”

“Shhh,” you rasp. You bring a weary finger to your lips, to which Karkat’s jaw clicks shut. “I’m okay, yeah. You can stop now. Sorry. I just kind of, uh. Forgot breathing was a thing there for a second.”

The pats come to an abrupt halt. Karkat gapes.

You pointedly ignore his stare, straightening your shades and wishing the meteor could just swallow you whole. Seriously. Any time now, meteor. Please and fucking thank you. But to your surprise, the troll’s hand stays steady and warm on your back. You feel his nails press into your skin, soft but firm. Dependable, just like Karkat himself.

And he’s not one to be kept quiet long.

“Fucking Christ, Strider!” Karkat splutters. “I know you’re thick, but how the fuck do you forget to breathe? How is that a _thing?!_ ”

“I know. I lived it, dude. Don’t remind me,” you say, brushing fingers through your hair. “So, um. Yeah. Sorry about that. For interrupting our bro-to-bro conversation, I mean. Shit ain’t cool.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Karkat says, dumbfounded. “ _I’m_ sorry. I pushed you on shit that’s obviously bothering you like the nosy fuckwad I am. That’s infinitely more ‘uncool.’” He shakes his head, ears flattening in shame. “Really though, are you okay? And no bullshitting, I’m serious. Otherwise I’m ratting your ass out to Vriska for stealing her 8-ball last perigee.”

“Ooh, snap, we’re talking big leagues now. You’d leave a bro out in the cold to face Serket’s wrath? All by his lonesome with nothing but a shitty Mattel toy to defend himself?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. That’s cold, dog. The Mayor needed it for can town and you damn well know it.”

“The Mayor _did_ look sickeningly adorable playing with it,” he relents. “The sheer sugary sweetness gave me five cavities, an ulcer, and type 2 diabetes. It was fucking incredible. Just thinking about it induces my gag reflex. But this isn’t about how cute the Mayor is.” He taps your forehead with a nod. “This is about whether you’re okay or not. So, are you?”

“Yeah,” you say, repressing a smile. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” Warmth drums in your chest as you can’t help but enjoy the fact that he’s fussing over you. That _anyone’s_ fussing over you. “Strider.exe crashed for a moment there, but we’re back in business now. So, uh. Yeah.”

You pause, steeling yourself to continue. But before the words can tumble off your tongue, Karkat raises his free hand.

“Dave, wait. Don’t,” he says. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on in that maggot ridden thinkpan of yours right now—scratch that, I _never_ know what’s going on in that ridiculous bilgesack you call a skull. But if you’re forgetting to _breathe,_ like you’re some half strangled cluckbeast ready for slaughter, it’s obviously something big. And if you don’t want to tell me, don’t. It’s okay.” Karkat pauses. “Well, no, it’s not okay to stop breathing. I don’t care if you’re immortal, that shit is fucking absurd and makes me want to stab hot pokers into my ganderbulbs from its sheer idiocy. Violently. And repeatedly. With the force of a fucking cholerbear.” He palms his face, shaking it as if imagining the scenario in gratuitous, overblown detail. “But if you’re uncomfortable talking to me about it, don’t feel like you have to. I’m not a wiggler about to shit my pants all because my best friend didn’t tell me something. Just know I’m here if you need me, alright?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Karkat starts to rub your back. As his palm drags across your muscles, you lean into the warm touch. You feel your previous concerns about contact begin to ebb away, fucking off well into the distance. Or so you hope. And you’re grateful. So, so grateful for this grumpy ass troll by your side.

And that gratitude just makes you want to tell him even more. Determination bubbles in your gut. You reach for Karkat’s free arm, causing him to stiffen in surprise as your fingers close around his wrist. You take a deep breath.

“Karkat, I…”

He blinks, brows furrowing.

“I want—”

Remember to breathe this time.

“I want you to be the peanut butter to my jelly.”

Karkat stares. Blankly, eyes round with confusion. Wait.

“The rum to my coke.” Shit.

“The pork to my beans.” Goddamn.

“The Rose to my Jack, but with less dying and more smooching please and thanks.” Fuck.

“Dave, what—”

“The beauty to my beast. Wait, no, switch that around. Beast to _my_ beauty, I am one fine ass motherfucker and—”

“Strider, what in the name of _fuck_ are you—”

“I like you!” You blurt out.

That gets his attention. Karkat stills, ears erect and mouth agape. A warm flush spreads across his cheeks, bright candy red against the gray complexion of his skin. As if on cue, your own face burns in turn. You break into a sweat.

“Like, romantically,” you add. Unhelpfully. But it’s not as if anyone’s never accused you of redundancy.

You resist the urge to abscond into the next stratosphere. A hard fought battle, harder than any punch Jack ever threw at you (the jury’s still out on Bro’s). Your heart thunk thunk _thunks_ against your chest, pounding your ribcage in a likely attempt to break free and strangle you. At least it would effectively put you out of your misery, you guess. That urge only grows when Karkat retracts his hand from your back—slowly, as if unsure of himself—and pulls away. Much to your dismay, his fingers instead find residency in the comfort of his sweater, gripping the soft fabric like a lifeline as he stares at you. An uneasy quiet descends upon you two as he processes your words, words that you intrinsically and fundamentally regret.

Pork and beans? Really? _Really?_ You don’t even like pork. Or beans, for that matter. Coke’s okay and nothing of course beats a good old fashioned PBJ, but... _this_ was how you chose to confess? Christ, you somehow managed to fuck it up worse in person than with the mirror. Like seriously. You need to get your happy ass to Walmart and buy yourself a filter because holy fucking _shit_ that was awful. Worse than awful. You’ve won the goddamn Olympics in awfulness. You have all the medals. All of them. Gold, silver, bronze. Even those shitty little participation ones. Michael Phelps is looking down on you from the great pool in the sky, shaking his head in jealousy.

As the silence persists, you begin to tick off the seconds, waiting for his reaction as dread once again worms its way into your gut. It coils deep inside, twisting your innards apart. You wrap your arm around your stomach, refusing to break eye contact but unable to quench the uneasiness rising in your belly.

Five seconds… You’re beginning to think the Mayor was wrong. That this was a mistake. You bit the bullet, sure, but you think it must have taken a huge chunk of your esophagus with it as bile bubbles in your throat. You swallow. Hard.

Fifteen seconds… It’s hard to keep looking Karkat in the eyes. You’re pretty sure smoke’s starting to rise from your head, the last remnants of your dignity gone with the wind as your face welds itself into a frying pan. Your mouth struggles to remain flat. Emotionless. Like this doesn’t mean jack shit to you. Except it does, you know it does, and every second stings sharper the longer Karkat stays quiet.

Twenty seconds… Maybe you should play it off as a joke. Some masterful display of ironic showmanship by yours truly. But you know Karkat sees straight through you anyways, and you’re not so much of an asshole to pretend to mess with his feelings. Even if it is to save your own hide. Either way, you _are_ about ready to make a run for it. Lock your door, maybe hunker down in your room for the rest of the trip. Avoid contact with anyone and everyone until this fiasco fades from memory. Yeah, that’s a game plan right there. Yeah. Okay. You start to rise from your seat, legs itching to bolt for the transporter pad, and—

“Sweet mother grub’s undulating asshole,” Karkat says.

“What?” you choke.

Twenty-five goddamn seconds after the fact, Karkat finally, _finally_ regains functionality. And he chooses to use that newfound mobility by burying his face in his hands. An astonishing feat of physical ingenuity, all are impressed. Pressing his bulbous nose flat against his palms, he shakes his head and just. Groans. Loudly. Like you’ve pissed in his Cheerios and made him late for work. Of all reactions, you weren’t expecting this. Whatever the hell ‘this’ is. Your rump falls back into place, dumbfounded.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god, Dave.”

“ _What?_ ” you demand.

“That was the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard,” he says. “Ever.”

You wince. Okay, yeah, you probably deserve that. It _was_ pretty fucking bad, but. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to be feeling right now. Embarrassed? Without a doubt, your face is red enough to get the undead corpse of Joseph McCarthy hot on your ass.

But you also feel the beginnings of hurt prickle at your skin. A lump’s lodged itself deep inside your gut, cold and dense, and it’s waging war with the furnace burning in your cheeks. Shit brings the idiom ‘running hot and cold’ to a whole goddamn new meaning, one that you never wanted to know.

You brace yourself, knowing rejection is on the tip of Karkat’s tongue as he opens his mouth again.

“And yet,” Karkat says, slowly, pulling himself away from the safety of his hands, “it’s still the most endearing thing I’ve ever heard, too. Fucking incredible.”

Wait. Rewind. What?

Now that his face is upside, you realize you’re not the only one donning red. From ears to neck down, Karkat’s completely flushed. Sharp incisors press hard into his skin, mindlessly chewing lip like he always does when he gets flustered or nervous. Straightening, he meets your gaze, expecting—what? You don’t know. Words try and fail to exit your mouth. Your own tongue feels thick and heavy, dry against your palate and unable to form coherent sentences. Lucky for you, though, Karkat has plenty.

“That was a thing of fucking legend,” he says, brushing a hand against his cheek in awe. “Oh my god, just. I don’t think there’s ever been a more unromantic gesture. In the history of paradox space. And I’ve read an absolute shit ton of trashy novels. We’re talking below bottom of the barrel here, like center of the Earth and then some bottom. It’s so bottom it’s digging itself into a new hemisphere. Nothing quite compares. This was a once in a life time opportunity to see romance catch fire and spontaneously combust in midair, and goddamn did it ever provide the fucking fireworks.”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” you say, snorting. You’re still not sure where this is going, but your chest feels lighter somehow, seeing Karkat as flustered as you are. At least the words come easier, now. “Romance is dead in a ditch due to yours truly. No longer will you read smut way past your bedtime. No longer will diamonds or spades or hearts or clubs haunt your dreams, for I’ve slain the beast that keeps you up at night. You’re fucking welcome, you ungrateful little shit.”

Karkat laughs, and the pressure weighing in your stomach all but dissipates.

“Motherfucker, please. I’ll give thanks where thanks is due!” he says, thumbing his nose. Cheeky bastard. He pauses, eyes clouding over in thought. His hand drops to his side, fingers burrowing into the depths of his sweater. “Still,” Karkat says, fiddling with the gray cloth, “as painful as that was—and that was painful beyond feasible comprehension as well as my capacity to vomit—it was…nice.” A small smile graces his lips, and your heart soars.

“Fucking finally, too. I was waiting for you to tell me, and—”

“ _Waiting?”_ you ask. “Wait, you _knew?_ ”

“Of course I knew!” Karkat retorts, waving his hand. “However much I wish otherwise, my ganderbulbs aren’t _actually_ skewered by sharp instruments. I’m not that fucking lucky. But yes, I haven’t spent the whole trip twiddling my thumbs on the load gaper, whittling away tiny honkbirds. I’m not blind.” He rolls his eyes as if to emphasize the point. “And you’re not exactly subtle, Dave. You think otherwise, but you’re an open book. Did you really think I never caught on to your ‘hey let’s watch Good Luck Chuck for the fiftieth fucking time so we can snuggle up on the couch together’ ploys? Also, fuck you for making me watch Dane Cook that much. That has nothing to do with this conversation, but I felt like it needed to be said.”

“But you always feel like that needs to be said.”

“Precisely. The trauma you’ve inflicted upon me this past sweep knows no bounds.” Raising his chin, Karkat dramatically closes his eyes and palms his forehead. You swear he fakes a tiny sniffle. “My anguish bladder’s run dry, so exhausted it is from the tears I shed daily as I’m forced to watch his hideous high-definition visage. It’s like a fucking desert up in here. And on the horizon, it looks like there’s an oasis, taunting me with its tantalizing whispers of watery relief. But no. As I get closer, I realize it’s just Dane Cook, flipping me off before a herd of flipperbirds carry him into the distance.”

“Don’t knock the penguins, dude. They’re the best actors in the whole damn movie,” you say. Even if this conversation’s not going at all how you planned it, you can’t help but smirk as he regains his composure. But the question of what this all means weighs on your mind; he still hasn’t given you a real answer yet. And as anxiety again boils in your gut, you know you have to find out soon. You tug at your collar, unsure of how to proceed.

“So, um. Anyways,” you say, struggling to find the words. Start with the basics. “While I love shitting on Dane Cook as much as the next guy, I’ve gotta ask. If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?” Karkat blinks.

“Oh. Well, uh,” he stutters, caught off guard. You know how he feels—shooting the shit’s familiar territory, comfortable in its verbose banter and inane tangents. But you’re both navigating uncharted waters here, waters rife with emotional hurdles that any regular old feelings jam can’t fix. It’s scary. But you’ve given him your piece; now you need to hear his, whatever his decision may be.

“Well,” Karkat says, pausing. “I’m usually pretty good at picking up signals. And I’ve had plenty of practice, seeing as half my team’s session memos devolved into dealing with their ass backwards romantic woes. Of course, the rest of the time consisted of me screaming at myself, but that’s beside the point.” He shrugs, as if arguing with different iterations of yourself is some commonplace occasion unworthy of note. For him, you guess it is. “So I’ve just gotten pretty good at judging romantic leanings, that’s all. But…okay. I, uh. May have had feelings for Terezi at some point. And I thought she reciprocated. But one day she just started avoiding me, and it hasn’t been the same since.

“I know I fucked it up, somehow. Or maybe I misjudged the whole situation and pressured her from the get go, I’m not sure. I think I was just desperate for attention. When she started giving me some, I lapped it up like a starving barkbeast and ended up overwhelming her.” Karkat scratches his head, shame washing over his face. “It was probably for the best, though. This…won’t mean much to you, but I never could tell if my interest in her was red or black. It was almost as if it was both at the same time, which is beyond fucking selfish. I wouldn’t want to put her through that slog of horseshit.”

“Makes sense,” you say. It’s taken time, but you’ve gotten a better grasp on the ridiculous ass shenanigans troll call romance. Enough to at least understand what Karkat’s talking about. “If it makes you feel any better, I kinda thought she and I had hit it off during the game, too.” Shitty drawings go a long way in the process of courtship, after all. “But she’s been all over Vriska since we touched down on the meteor, so I gave up the ghost pretty quick. She seems a lot happier with the Spiderbitch, anyways.”

“Yeah,” Karkat says, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. “Can’t say I get _why_ anyone would want to hang around Vriska more than is abso-fucking-lutely necessary, but nobody asked me to begin with. Either way, whatever makes Terezi happy makes me happy.”

“True that.” You raise your fist to officiate this feelings jam with an old fashioned fist bump, which he readily supplies in hand with a quick knock of knuckles. “But while I’m all for TZ being the happiest of trolls, I’m not sure how that answers my question.”

“I’m getting to that part,” Karkat huffs. “Hold your hoofbeasts!”

“Can’t hold no horses, Karkat. These here broncos long to run wild and free, and who am I to deny their calling? Don’t ask me to pen away Spirit, man. That’d be just straight up cruel and unusual.”

“If I ask you to shut your damn seed flap, will you let me finish?” Karkat says, pinching the bridge of his nose with a well-practiced sigh.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good. Now that _that’s_ out of the way, I’ll get back to what I was saying already. So yeah, the Terezi fiasco left me pretty twisted up inside—about redrom, blackrom, signals, you fucking name it. And just to be clear, that wasn’t any reflection on her. I knew it was my own damn fault right from the start. I’m pretty sure being a fuck up’s embedded in my genetics, like it’s ingrained in my DNA. I can’t bleed right, I can’t love right, so obviously something’s wrong inside.” He frowns. “But self-pitying aside, that was all playing in my thinkpan when you started giving off hints. You were getting all snuggly and chatty and clingy—like more so than usual, I mean—and I saw you kept watching me when you thought I wasn’t looking. But I didn’t want to jump the gun and assume anything like I had with Terezi, you know? And, well.”

Karkat pauses. After a moment, his blush returns full stop, and he turns away. He rubs his neck, avoiding eye contact, and...

Wait. Oh. Oh _shit_. Is this—is this really—

“I, uh. May have been hoping you liked me like I like you.”

Hello, operator? Call the fucking cops. Your heart’s on the run and that righteous motherfucker ain’t coming back alive.

“I was worried I was seeing things that weren’t there, that I was just seeing what I wanted to see. So I wanted to wait for you to make the first move, which in retrospect was pretty—uh, Dave?”

Ears ringing and face aflame, you feel your body rising out of the chair on autopilot. Immune to the flabbergasted Karkat beside you, you float higher and higher, Strider brand stoicism be damned. You feel lighter than air, totally freed from the binding chains of your self-doubts and—

“Ow,” you mumble.

“What the fuck, Dave?!” Karkat yells from below.

You are now face to face with the ceiling.

Well. That sure as fuck is a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the silly way I ended the pseudo-panic doesn't come off as me joking about that stuff, because it's definitely no joking matter. I just wanted a 'Dave' way to transition. If it does bother folks, please let me know and I'll make changes. I don't want to upset anyone, just provide fluffy shenanigans.
> 
> Hit me up on my [tumblr](http://agentsokka.tumblr.com/) if you've any thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my god, Dave,” he wheezes in-between laughs, “how the FUCK did you manage that? Seriously, holy shit. This is priceless. Fuck it, I rescind every complaint about god tiers I’ve ever had. Every single one, gone. Vamoosed, vanished! Nothing beats this—hell, nothing _compares_ to this. I’ve seen the light, Dave. I’ve been born anew, consider me a convert to the grand church of Skaia!”
> 
> “Yeah, yeah,” you grumble. “Laugh it up down there while you still can. Don’t come crying to me when your ass is excommunicated for sins against my dignity, you filthy heathen.”

[ _I could be just what you’re looking for, but so far it’s too hard to tell.  
‘Cause I can’t remember how to be normal, I’m sociopathic as hell._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)

_\--_

As it would turn out, ceilings in musty old meteors aren’t that pleasant to snog. In fact, they’re rather unpleasant. Downright disgusting, really. You would know because, currently, you are face to face with one. The steel is coated in god knows what, oozing a distinct green slime in places that sure as fuck must violate 255 or more health code regulations, and it smells like the bottom of a dumpster. One that’s caught fire and is being hauled off to Mount Trashmore, that is.

Why would Terezi ever willingly put her face to this? How could she _lick_ this? Somehow, that troll girl confuses you even more now. You didn’t think it possible, but she’s proven you wrong yet again.

Lucky for you, you managed to miss the slime, so your cheeks and clothes remain unblemished by…whatever the hell this is. Thank fuck, you’re not sure your pajamas could survive the stains. _Un_ lucky for you, you’re here to begin with, breathing in toxic fumes you’re sure will cut five years off your life.

And Karkat’s having the time of _his_ life beneath you.

“Oh my god, Dave,” he wheezes in-between laughs, “how the FUCK did you manage that? Seriously, holy shit. This is priceless. Fuck it, I rescind every complaint about god tiers I’ve ever had. Every single one, gone. Vamoosed, vanished! Nothing beats this—hell, nothing _compares_ to this. I’ve seen the light, Dave. I’ve been born anew, consider me a convert to the grand church of Skaia!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble. “Laugh it up down there while you still can. Don’t come crying to me when your ass is excommunicated for sins against my dignity, you filthy heathen.”

You’re blushing again, but for a whole new reason than before. Ascending into a ceiling will do that for you. A dull throb pulses in your temple where you unceremoniously consummated your marriage with said ceiling, but it’s nothing compared to the giddiness still swirling inside you.

Karkat likes you. Karkat _likes_ you.

Fuck you sideways and cover you in applesauce, you’re just about over the moon right now. And, also, smack against a ceiling. Such are semantics. 

A tug breaks you from your reverie, and you glance to see Karkat standing atop the chair with his hands fastened tight around your cape. He’s still as rosy cheeked as Baby New Year, but he’s grinning from ear to ear as he pulls you back down to the ground. Amused, you decide to make things harder for him and stay stock-still, neither helping nor resisting movement.

“Stop sulking, Dave!” Karkat laughs, pulling you and your cape closer and closer to the upholstery. You flip him the bird, which he returns in suit.

Somehow, you and your dead weight manage to remain upside as he tugs, defying the laws of gravity through god tier shenanigans. It’s a huge ‘fuck you’ to Isaac Newton, but you never liked physics anyways. Of course, you never _studied_ physics—you were homeschooled in the art of the sword and that was that—but it always sounded shitty from John’s complaints. Then again oh shit fuck Karkat wait—

“OOF!”

With one final heave, Karkat plucks you from your airborne thoughts. Unfortunately, the sharp yank also brings you crashing down upon him, a conclusion he realizes too late if his startled yelp is anything to go by. He crumples into the sofa as your bodies collide, causing the poor thing to screech in protest as it absorbs the shock. To its credit, it remains upright, but the ache in your forehead spreads across your back when you land awkwardly atop the armrest.

Well. Shit.

“Ouch,” you say, opting for the obvious.

“Understatement of the fucking millennium,” Karkat groans from below. He peaks his head out from under your thigh, hair amess as he struggles to free himself. “I always knew past me was an idiot, but this is ridiculous, even for him.”

“Dude, it’s literally been five seconds. You are literally criticizing yourself from five seconds ago.”

“Principle still applies. Now would you be so kind as to get your sorry, totally unattractive human butt _off of me?”_

 “Naw, it’s out sick for the day. But my totally _attractive_ butt will give it careful consideration,” you say, already wiggling away to make room. You throw your legs up and twist against the chair’s back, readjusting your shades in the process. “It’s got a mind of its own sometimes, you know how it is. Gotta let the rump take its dumps and find its stumps. Do its own thing every now and then. If not, you’ve got the derriere union on strike right outside your door. Next thing you know, the posterior police are closing in, and you’ll have nothing but yourself to blame for your fanny’s fuckery.”

“Ugh, why do I like you again?” Karkat says, squirming out from under you. Once free, he throws his arms over the armrest like he’s a troll overboard and it’s some kind of life preserver.

“My dashingly good looks and off brand Strider charm?”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he snorts, straightening beside you. “Excuse my suspension of disbelief, its suspenders ripped apart from the sheer weight of its incredulity. My disbelief’s so obese that it can’t take heights at all anymore, really. Instead it just waddles around, unable to swallow the bullshit it’s offered from above.”

“A goddamn tragedy.”

“Truly. But, um,” Karkat pauses, turning to face you. His eyes flash, and you swear you see his Adam’s apple bob with an anxious gulp. “I…really do. Like you, I mean. N-now don’t let that shit go to your head, you’re a pompous enough prick as is. But. Yeah.”

Butterflies dance in your belly at his words—he likes you, he likes you, _he likes you_. The mantra plays on repeat inside your head, and you break into a cheesy grin, not caring how uncool you look. One that’s almost exclusively reserved for him. He smiles in turn, teeth peering out from over his lip.

“Be still my maiden heart, you had me at ‘pompous prick,’” you drawl, placing a hand over your chest. “You win all the ladies like this, Karkat?”

“No. I reserve such fucking magnanimity for shitstained weasel faces like you, so show some goddamn gratitude.”

“Ouch. Well, consider this shitstained weasel face honored,” you say. Then a thought strikes you, thunderous like lightning. “But, uh. Just to be clear, you like me…red, right? Good old fashioned hearts and all that?”

His smile wavers, and your heart constricts. Well, fuck. You’re not sure if you can handle if he ‘hate likes’ you or whatever, no matter how much you’ve learned about black romance’s intricacies in the past two years. It just doesn’t sit right with you, that kind of thing. Karkat eyes his knees, a frown beginning to form. You swallow, desperately wishing to change it back.

“I-I mean, it’s okay if you don’t,” you backtrack, even though it’s a bald faced lie. “Totally okay. More than okay. It’s the most okay-est thing this side of paradox space and all the other okays are jealous. It’s that level of okay, okay. Like it’s cool if you’re leaning spades or diamonds, no biggie. Hell, even clubs would work, though I don’t think there’s anyone to auspistize. Plus that’s kind of Kanaya’s gig, she sorta hogs all the clubs to herself like she’s the class president and ain’t nobody can get in to one without her say so. She’s the lesbian vampire queen of the school and damn if her word ain’t law—”

“Dave!” Karkat snaps, shaking your shoulder. “I can’t explain if you don’t stop rambling!” Oh, right. Your jaw clicks shut without protest. He lets go with a huff, satisfied with your compliance. But while your mouth’s stopped running a mile a minute, you feel your heart picking up pace again, worries threatening to consume you.

“As I was _going_ to say, I’m…not sure.” Karkat’s frown deepens. “It’s…like it was with Terezi, almost. Like, I _know_ I have flushed feelings for you. That’s a certified fact, so stop looking like I drowned your baby barkbeast already. It’s just…I also have pale feelings. _And_ black feelings. Sometimes even _ashen_ feelings if by rare fucking occasion the others have crawled out of their hidey holes to socialize like actual goddamn people.” He shakes his head. “But it’s not vacillation, I could handle it if that were the case. Trolls vacillate all the time, you’ve seen the movies. Well, no, you’ve slept through most of them—which by the way, fuck you for that—but the point still stands. It’s like…I feel everything at once. _You_ make me feel everything at once.” He pauses.

“That’s just about the sweetest thing I ever heard get said,” you say, interjecting. Karkat purses his lips and shoots you a withering glare in response. He’s unable to discern whether your interruption’s ironic or sincere, and to be frank, even you’re not sure which it is at this point. But you think you’re leaning toward the latter, if you’re honest with yourself. “Sorry, continue.”

 “Yeah, well. My pumpbiscuit’s overflowing and it’s left me confused as fuck. Even if I did say something earlier, I wouldn’t have known what quadrant I wanted us to be in. I still don’t. And I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, what with your quarterless human love shtick, but. It means something to _me_. It’s just more evidence that I’m a royal fuckup who can’t do jack shit right.” Karkat’s eyes cloud over. He hugs his arms to his sides and shifts away, ears flattening in turn. “So, there you have it, all fucking laid out for you in a crappy little bow. I’m a shit troll and even shittier partner, what else is new.”

Karkat hunches in on himself and ducks his head down, as if ashamed to even look at you. And goddamn if you don’t hurt for him. Your heart squeezes, unsure of what to do. Swallowing, you watch him curl further into himself and fuck fuck _fuck_ , what do you do? What do you _say?_

As it turns out, you don’t need words. Instinct takes over in its stead as you open your arms and wrap them around Karkat, ignoring his surprised start as you tuck your chin over his shoulder. Your cheek presses against his knotty hair, still mussed from your earlier excursion. You feel him stiffen as your hands close around his chest, but it doesn’t last long. After a moment, his muscles relax and the tension melts away. You breathe in sync, absorbing the atmosphere of the room.

Several heartbeats pass in silence, just the two of you in the common area with nothing but Rose’s pretentious paintings hanging on the walls to keep watch. His hand touches yours, and your breath catches, afraid that he’ll push you off. But instead, he wraps his fingers around your palm, and you swear you hear a tiny purr rumble in his throat. Huh. Maybe that’s why that cat ghost girl from the dream bubbles kept calling him ‘Karkitty.’ Your heart swells with affection.

“You know,” you say, breaking the quiet finally, “I think you’re pretty great, no matter what you think of yourself.” His grip on your hand tightens, but he doesn’t respond. “And like. Don’t tell John I said this, but you’re kind of the coolest guy I know. Not as cool as me maybe, but no one’s as cool as me so that ain’t no fair way to assess your frosty levels of chill. Not that you have any chill, mind you, but I digress.” You pause, trying to find the words. “What I mean is that… Fuck, this is sappier than a sugar maple, but I’m being 100% serious so hear me out. Like you shout and holler and do your best to make my ears bleed at any given time of the day, but you seem to like. Actually give two shits about me. And care. And that means a lot to me, y’know? It’s, uh…made me reevaluate a lot of my life. I don’t wanna open up that trumped up can of worms right now, maybe someday. But just know that your ‘shitty trollness’ has helped me feel almost human for the first time in like, ever. So that’s a thing.

“And like, we don’t have to define ourselves by hearts and shit if that doesn’t feel right to you. We can be the weirdest fuckin’ heart-club-spade-diamond amalgamated _thing_ ever, an absolute tetragon of bullshit proportions. Like beyond the grave, Salvador Dali’s pissing his pants from the sheer surreality that is our fucked up rhombus. Whatever you want, Karkat. Fuck the po-po. And hell, if you don’t want to be together at all, that’s. That’s okay, too. We can walk outta this room once the happy town snuggle club meeting’s adjourned and never speak of this again. But I just wanted you to know all that.”

It’s quiet again, but it’s a comfortable silence. Karkat’s hand is warm against yours, unfamiliar in its presence yet oh so inviting in its tenderness. Hardened callouses bump each other as he knits your fingers together, and you tighten your grasp around his chest in turn.

You think you can get used to this. You _hope_ you can get used to this, if given the opportunity to. The purring in his throat picks up again, only brokered by the sound of his voice when he speaks up.

“For the record,” Karkat says softly, “I think you’re pretty great too.” He rubs his face against yours, careful to avoid jarring your jugular with his horns. A wise decision overall, since you think a crushed trachea would rather ruin the moment. “And as much as it pains me to say it, you’re…usually right. About everything. And you always know just what to say to piss me the fuck off then calm me down again. It makes me feel—fuck, _you_ make me feel—like I’m not a total screw up messing things up for everyone else. Like. You’re an absolute smartass and drive me up the wall so much I’m practically squatting on the ceiling, but…you’re the best fucking friend I’ve ever had.”

Unsure of what else to do, you simply cling to his back, basking in the heat radiating off his person.

“Thanks Karkat,” you say, finally.

“Yeah, well. Like I said before, don’t let it go to your head,” Karkat grunts.

“Y’know, that kinda falls flat when I can literally feel you purring. It’s like a goddamn vibrator on maximum overdrive up in here. All kinds of shit’s going to my head now man, and I refuse to be held accountable for your actions.”

“Shut up.”

“Naw.”

“Moving on,” Karkat says with a huff, “from this positively _thrilling_ tangent, but. Yeah. I…yeah. Yeah, I would.”

“Yeah you would what?” You blink. Is this going where you think it’s going…?

“I…yeah, I would. I would want that,” he repeats, flustered. “To, um. Be with you. And stuff. Even if it’s outside of the quadrants, as fucking bizarre as that is to wrap my thinkpan around. Or inside all of them? Fuck, whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just…if it’s with you, then yeah. I’d like that.”

Oh. Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_. Your heart leaps into your mouth. But instead of freeloading like before, it’s throwing a goddamn dance party and every cell, tissue, and organ’s invited as euphoria overwhelms you. Excitement screams inside, begging to be released. You know you can’t put your joy into words, so you do the next best thing: squeeze Karkat like he’s the last goddamn bit of toothpaste in your Colgate tube. Which is, to say, very hard, and very thoroughly. Burying your face in his hair, you tighten your arms around him and snicker as he squawks with protest.

“Augh! Shit Dave, I said I’d date you,” he says, floundering. His fingers break free of yours as he starts flailing his arms, squirming for freedom. “I never said anything about letting you crush me to death!”

“It’s all right there in the fine print, dude. You’ve signed the Strider waiver in blood and made a done deal with the devil. I am no longer responsible or liable for your personal space bubble. Say hello to permanent happy town snuggle club membership, motherfucker.”

You pull away with a laugh, freeing his wiggling frame from your embrace. He twists around, ruffled from the unexpected assault but smiling nonetheless as he faces you proper. You can’t help but grin back, wondering what’s next.

Is that it? What do boyfriends—he’s your boyfriend, he’s your _boyfriend_ , holy bicycle shitting tits—even do? Your mind traitorously whispers sloppy makeouts. But again: how does someone _do_ that? Obvious action aside, it’s not as if you have a frame of reference for asking ‘hey little mama can I put my lips against yours and initiate what they call ‘the smooch.’’ You think it would be somewhat awkward if you just went for it without clear warning. That, and you’re not sure Karkat’s even ready for that stage yet. You think _you’re_ ready, but who’s to say for sure. You guess there’s only one way to find out.

“So, um. Yeah. What now?” He blinks.

“I, uh. I dunno,” he stammers. “What did _you_ want to do? Like, before?”

“I didn’t actually plan this far ahead,” you admit. “I never thought I’d get this far.” You scratch the back of your head, searching for a possible next move. When it hits you, you gulp. Oh boy.

Well, you’re already this far. Might as well bite the proverbial bullet a second time.

“Um. Do you wanna. Y’know.”

You are nothing if not tactful. Truly, your mastery of the English language is un-fucking-matched. Inimitable, incomparable, and goddamn well exceptional in its sublimity.

Suck on that, Lalonde. You can use thesauruses too.

Eloquence aside, Karkat goes beet red with comprehension. You’re in the process of heating up as well before he gives a nod, a tiny one, which just about sends you into nuclear orbit. Oh. Oh shit, this is really happening. You’re really doing this. Just—how? You bite your tongue, uncertain of how to proceed. But you must make a face or something as Karkat throws his palms into the air with a start.

“I-it’s okay if you don’t!” Karkat says hastily. “I just, uh. Well you asked. I think. Unless you meant something else entirely, which by then I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about nor know what I just agreed to.”

“No! I mean, no, I _want_ to. Kiss. And stuff. Like. Shit, of course I do. I just mean, well. It’s not like I have any practice in these wayward shenanigans. My mouth’s an unsullied virgin to all things tongue—outside my own, I mean—so, I uh. Don’t exactly know…how.”

You’re surprised that Karkat hums in agreement, rubbing his neck with similar awkwardness. To be honest, you kind of figured he’d be more knowledgeable about this stuff, what with the innumerable books and cinema he has under his belt. In the end, you guess nothing but practice prepares you for the real deal. His expression mirrors your own, eager with anticipation yet marred by anxiety, and you realize you’re both in the same boat together. The same dinky old dinghy that nobody wants to touch, sitting poised to sink at any given time and any given place depending on its fancy. Most likely whenever and wherever is most inconvenient for its seafarers, like the shitty asshole it is.

High-ho, the S.S. Inexperience. May its maiden voyage be even marginally successful.

You both spend the next minute or so waiting for the other to make his move, do anything to propel this course of action into, well. Action. Instead, all you do is waste time staring at each other and becoming steadily redder as the seconds tick off. Still, nothing lasts forever, and Karkat’s the first to break when he plunges his face into his hands.

“Ugh! Fuck, I’m sorry,” he groans. He shakes his head, ears pinned tight against it in embarrassment. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Hey bro, it’s okay,” you say, ignoring the nerves tickling in your chest. You ruffle his hair for equal measure, hoping he takes just as much comfort from the gesture as annoyance. “Seriously, if you don’t feel alright with this yet, we don’t gotta do dick squat.” It’s not like your heart _isn’t_ beating a mile a minute, so who are you to judge?

“No, I…want to,” Karkat says, pulling his face free. “I want to try. I mean. Fuck, it’s not like I haven’t wanted to for a while.”

Is the god you don’t believe in testing you? Like, is this some extravagant hoax to see how warm your cheeks will go before your mind just pulls the plug and cuts off oxygen? Fuck, you’ve heard of trials, but this shit is ridiculous.

“I just…here, copy me,” Karkat says, taking a deep breath. He looks you over, tongue sticking out of his mouth with an air of determination, and places his hands on your shoulders. They find comfortable purchase in the hood bundled there, claws digging lightly into the fabric, and you follow suit. Grip now secured, you swallow hard as he presses your bodies closer together. Sweat beads on your forehead. He’s trembling under your touch, anxiety radiating off him in waves. You give him a squeeze of what you hope passes for reassurance.

One heartbeats passes, then three, then six, then—

“This is awkward,” you comment. He groans. The hot breath tickles your nose and fogs your shades, blurring your line of sight.

Oh, right. You should probably move those.

“Okay, okay! Fine! How about we go on the count of three? Does that work for you, smartass?”

“Sure. Maybe. Actually, wait. Do we go _on_ three, like one-two-smoocharoo, or do we go one, two, three, and _then_ go?”

“Does it matter?” Karkat blinks, bewildered.

“Devil’s in the details, dude.” You nod sagely, as if this holds any actual merit and isn’t sourced directly from your ass.

“What the fuck does the facetious embodiment of paradoxical ‘evil’ have anything to do with this?!”

“I’m just saying. Before we draw our pentagrams and break out the goat blood, we better make sure we exorcise this bitch good and proper. If not, he’s gonna fuck us over with a surprise rapture from behind, and I’d rather not suffer eternal damnation mid-mack.”

Your body shakes with laughter as Karkat’s scrunches up with fury. Snickering, you pat him down before he can work himself into a full blown tangent and further distract from the matter at hand. The tension eases from his frame at the touch, though his eyes still glitter with annoyance.

“I’m just fucking with you, man,” you say. “Sorry, I’m kind of nervous too.”

Karkat’s gaze softens, all previous frustration melting away.

“Yeah, I figured,” he says. “It’s okay. Your rambling dials up to an eleven when you’re stressed. It’s like fucking clockwork.”

“You spend enough time on LOHAC and everything becomes clockwork.” You shrug. “So yeah, on three works. Though hang on a second, I’ve gotta put these up.”

You let go and quickly push the shades into your hair, mussing it in the process. Once safely perched atop your crown, your hand finds its way back home on his shoulder. You wince as your corneas accommodate the sudden light, unused to the brightness. But as a saturated Karkat comes into focus, you tighten your grip and nod.

“So, on three?”

You’re doing this, man. You’re _making this happen_.

“On three,” he says, alight with determination. He closes his eyes, like the typical romantic he is. You do the same, unsure of what else to do.

“One—”

Nerves dance in your belly, but excitement far outstrips them.

“Two—”

Your heart’s pounding and you can’t help but grin. Karkat likes you. He’s your boyfriend and he _likes_ you.

“THREE!”

You lunge forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an asshole and I take pride in that fact. Have fun, y'all.
> 
> Also: I doubt it's possible to blush this much but Bob the Tomato's painting the world red just as Dave contemplated first chapter. Can't stop the veggies, man. It just ain't possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to popular belief, the safe darkness of one’s eyelids does not make for the perfect environment for macking. You dare say it’s rather flawed. Almost hazardous, even. This proves especially true when it involves two inexperienced boys springloaded up the ass on hysteria drugs attempting the long lost art of kissing.

[ _Am I thinking too much? It’s just OCD mixed with bad luck._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)  
[ _Yeah I might be strange, and this heart is a spare, and I’m damaged and I’m scared._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)  
[ _But goddammit, I’ve got to be brave._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)  
[ _Disengage._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfnju31kWjM)

_\--_

“OW FUCK!”

Contrary to popular belief, the safe darkness of one’s eyelids does not make for the perfect environment for macking. You dare say it’s rather flawed. Almost hazardous, even. This proves especially true when it involves two inexperienced boys springloaded up the ass on hysteria drugs attempting the long lost art of kissing.

You make contact alright, but puckered lips fail to reach their destinations as your forehead bangs against his nose like it’s your newfound punching bag. You barely have time to register what’s happening before pain bursts below your hairline, pulsing across your face. Dazed, you pull back with a start, almost falling over the armrest in your haste.

“Ouch, fuckin’ jesus,” you groan, palming the injury with caution. It throbs, heat radiating from the impact. You wince, but you don’t think you’re too bad off as the pain soon begins to abate into a dull twinge. You guess you should consider yourself lucky, but even the residual pain leaves much to be desired. Thankfully, your shades withstood the force of the impact, if somewhat askew in your hair.

Christ that hurt. There’s kissing, and then there’s _Glasglow_ kissing, and that sure as shit wasn’t the smooch you had in mind when you shut your peepers and puckered up. Karkat always said you were thickheaded, but you never thought it’d—

Wait. Karkat. You forgot you’re not alone. Your eyes spring open.

“Oh, fuck. Karkat, are you okay?”

Karkat, as it would seem, is not okay. At least, he didn’t weather the blow as well as you did by the looks of things. His hands are instead flung over his nose, eyes pinched shut, and his mouth is firing off a series of curses that would make even the dirtiest sailor cringe.

“FUCK! MOTHERFUCK! FUCKING HELL! JESUS SHAME GLOBE SHITTING SEED FLAPS AND BONE BULGE BITING NOOKSUCKERS TOTING GODDAMN BARFPUPPETS ON ONE WHEEL DEVICES! RUMBLE SPHERE FONDLING CHUMBUCKETS AND SLURRY RIDDEN THROB STALKS, MY ACHING NUGBONE!”

Well, alright. He can’t be doing _too_ badly if he has enough energy to spout off vulgarities like they’re MC slam poets rapping the dozens. You know only to worry about pain when Karkat’s _not_ throwing his shit fests, increasingly vintage though they may be.

“Dude, look at me,” you say, grabbing his wrists with a gentle, albeit firm, grip. Karkat’s diatribe immediately tapers off into a string of much softer swears, which does wonders for your ears but little to tell you what’s wrong. You squeeze, and he reluctantly peels his hands away with a groan.

“Oh. Shit. Karkat, you’re bleeding.”

No wonder the troll was pitching such a fit. Scarlet blood dribbles down his nostrils and chin with fervor, and Karkat’s by all means none too happy about it. Neither are you, for that matter; you’ve always hated blood, hated its look and feel on your skin whenever Bro’s swipes made their mark during strifes. The tangy taste in your mouth when he landed hits on your jaw, against your torso and nose, the sticky texture as it caked your limbs and torso after particularly grueling matches… Fuck, this isn’t the time. It’s just a nose bleed and it isn’t even your own. You shake your head and will the thoughts away (fuck off fuck off _fuck off_ ), forcing yourself to focus on the present.

Karkat’s face is scrunched in discomfort, forehead wrinkled and mouth ajar. Now lacking the pressure his palms provided, he winces as his nose adjusts to the sudden lack thereof. It’s red, swollen, and throbbing, and somehow even rounder than usual in its inflamed state. It doesn’t look broken, but it sure as hell looks painful. Your stomach clenches with guilt as you spy translucent red tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Karkat. Like, shit. I didn’t mean—”

“What?” Karkat interrupts, brows furrowed as he refocuses on you. He replaces his palm on his nose, careful to avoid jostling it, then further wipes the tears away with his sleeve. The blood trail remains, bright and thick against his lips. “What are you talking about? The fuck do you have anything to be sorry for?” You blink, easing back against the armrest as you absorb his confusion.

“I dunno man, I think headbutting your schnoz in like I’m Zinedine Zidane is something apology worthy. I mean, I know you trolls are all about violence and crap, but surely you guys apologize sometimes.”

“Of course we apologize,” he retorts. He pauses, then adds, “sometimes, anyways. But fuck, that was my own goddamn fault. I’m the one who said ‘let’s go on three’ and fluttered my eyes shut like I’m the dumpy love interest in a troll Adam Sandler romcom. Don’t feel bad about that, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, intelligible as always. “Still. That was, uh. Something.”

“Something,” Karkat repeats. He stares at you, a blank expression coloring his face.

You turn your head, embarrassment catching up with you nonetheless as red dusts across your cheeks. Well, fuck. No matter what he says, this is a disaster. And you _hurt_ him, god. How the _fuck_ did you screw this up so badly? Your ears burn in shame. Now that he’s realized what a loser you are (goddamn incredible he hadn’t earlier), why would he want to waste more time romancing your sorry ass? What the—

“Oh my god,” Karkat croaks. Startled, you whip back around to see his frame shaking. Oh, fuck. Your eyes widen. Is he okay? Is he having some bizarre ass delayed reaction to this failure of a stunt?

“This is so fucked up,” he says, wheezing. And then he breaks into laughter.

Uh. Rewind for a sec. What?

“Oh my _god_ ,” Karkat says, laughing harder. As his whole body racks with mirth, his arms abandon their post by his nose to worm their way around his heaving gut. Blood drips down his sweater in the process, but he pays it no mind. “Here I am, waiting fucking _perigees_ to kiss you, and I end up banging my cartilaginous nub on your _forehead_ like a bulgelicking tool the first chance I get. Crown me the king of fuck ups for I’ve revolted against the establishment, torn down the common order, and instated myself as the head asshole of a dumpster fire about to plunge off a cliff. Everyone watches in amazement, unable to look away from the train wreck that is my swan song!”

“Waiting months to kiss me? I’ve been waiting months to kiss _you,_ ” you say, his deprecating laughs beginning to turn infectious. A smile breaks across your face. “And like hell did you fuck up, _I_ fucked up. I fucked up so bad I invaded Russia during winter. Like if you’re the king, I’m the banished prince come to dethrone your Soviet ass and take back what’s rightfully mine. Except I can’t, ‘cause I’m in a goddamn gulag freezing my balls off in Serbia. _That’s_ how much of a fuck up I am. They’re waxing my asshole and fucking me over sideways, Karkat, there’s just no topping that amount of fuckery. Shit be hitting all kinds of critical levels and you’d best just accept it.”

“Screw that! I accept damn well nothing and will continue to accept nothing until you recognize the indisputable fact that I am, in fact, the most fucked up piece of shit this side of paradox space.”

“Naw, I’ve got my alternative facts right here and they say ‘yo Dave Strider is objectively the biggest fuck up in the history of ever, no ifs ands or buts about it.’” Giggles bubble in your chest, threatening to burst free. “Sorry Karkat, I don’t make the rules. Can’t argue with factuality, except when you can. Boosh.”

“What?! How are there alternatives to facts? That makes no sense!”

“Like I said bro, I don’t make the rules. Logic is illogical and insanity is sanity. Ladies and gentletrolls, we have entered the Twilight Zone. Get out your tinfoil hats and keep your hands inside the ride at all times, ‘cause we’re about to see some freaky ass shit.”

“The only freaky shit I see is you,” Karkat says with a snort, and that’s where you break.

You laugh, honest to god _laugh_. Not a half-choked wheeze, not some strangled chuckle, but outright guffaw as your torso rocks with involuntary glee. You collapse against him, shaking with giggles, and he wraps his arms around you doing the same. Howling with laughter, neither of you are quite sure what just happened, but are nevertheless unable to choke down the all-consuming chortles. Skin brushes fabric as you bury your face in his collarbone, enjoying the snug warmth of his sweater and presence. No wonder he wears this shit all the time, it’s comfy as fuck.

But comfort or no comfort, it isn’t enough to stop the sofa chair from tilting over under your combined weight. With a yelp, you’re both sent crashing to the floor when it gives out. He tumbles to the ground first, winded from the impact, and your own fall from grace buffets him further. Sprawled across his belly and legs entangled, you’re too busy laughing to feel embarrassed over the compromising position. Karkat, nose still bloody but undamaged (at least no more than it already was), seems to feel the same as he clutches you even tighter.

 “Fuck, okay. Yeah. Ouch,” he wheezes finally, warm and firm under your grasp. “How about we just agree to disagree? Seeing as we’re two stubborn pieces of shit and I’d like to keep _some_ cells in my thinkpan today, thanks.” He’s grinning his toothy grin, staring up at you with a gaze that can only be described as tender, and you note how different it is from his usual frowns and grimaces. Your heart drums wildly, blood rushing in your ears.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll let you off just this once,” you say. Chest to chest, you feel his body shudder with each breath. Inhale, exhale. Rise, fall. It’s soothing, somehow. “Truce?”

“That’s what I just said, you dork,” he says with a roll of his eyes. You swear, one day he’s going to roll them so hard, they’ll fly into orbit. Just boom, gone, off to lambast innocent satellites. “And no, I’m not going to lose my ganderbulbs, for fuck’s sake.” Shit. Did you say that out loud? “Yes.” Fuck.

Choice muttering aside, you feel…bolder, almost. Confident. It’s less staged down here, where you’re comfortable atop his frame and warm in his arms. No expectations, no worries to concern yourself with; it’s just you and Karkat, like always, and the tangible tension lays abandoned atop the sofa chair. It floods you with determination. Wriggling for a better angle, you place your hands down on the ground and hold yourself up. Karkat shifts under you in turn, for once not protesting his role as makeshift furniture. (He’s had plenty of time to get used to it during movie nights, you suppose). Soon enough, your face is perched directly over his, lazy smiles mere inches apart. You feel the purrs pick up again, vibrating deep within his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, curling his fingers in your hair. His hold tightens on you, arms pinned around your torso.

“Well damn, Karkat. You’re making me blush,” you say, voice teasing even as heat rises to your face.

“Compliment rescinded on fact of you being a patronizing prick,” he grumbles, but the purr strengthens nonetheless. “The moment is over, dead and buried in its grave. Bye-bye, moment! You were nice for the 0.009 nanoseconds you lasted.”

“You know you love me,” you say with a smirk. You’re not expecting a serious answer, but the way his eyes light up and ears prick knocks your breath away.

“Yeah,” he says, gaze softening. “Against my better judgement, I guess I do.”

You know it’s not ‘love’ love yet—neither of you are at that stage, and to assume otherwise would be jumping the gun from Tightwad, Missouri to planet fucking Jupiter. But there _is_ love there, a love that’s spurring the warmth deep inside you whenever he laughs at your jokes or yowls with indignity at your slights. You love this troll first and foremost as your best friend, your closest confidant and strongest source of support. And you wouldn’t trade him for anything. Heart aflutter, you decide to seize hold of the confidence drumming inside you and go for it.

You lean down, careful to avoid further injuring his nose or bloodying yourself. Boyfriend or not, shit’s just unsanitary and you doubt Karkat would thank you for it anyways. Flyaway hair frames his face as you descend, and this time, you leave your eyes open. Only when your reach your destination will they close, and as you gently press your lips against his forehead, they flutter shut.

The purring increases tenfold, and you snort as it rumbles beneath you. You stay like that for a while, enjoying the blissful proximity and relative quiet. But all things have to come to an end, and eventually your arms tire out. Pulling back, you resituate yourself, lying atop Karkat’s chest with your hands snug against his shoulders. He scratches your head, and you yourself would purr if you could as his fingers comb through your hair.

Damn, no wonder animals love being scritch-scratched behind the ears. Shit feels amazing.

Content, you nearly doze off right there. Thoughts of the Mayor and duties have long left you, gone with the wind of your turbulent emotions. You almost wish you could stay like this forever, without worries of the future or anxieties from the past bogging you down. But far sooner than you’d like, Karkat breaks the silence, and the illusion vanishes.

“Hey Dave,” He says, shaking your shoulder gently. “As sweet as this is, I’m still bleeding. So let me up, you big oaf.”

“Aw, but Karkat,” you whine, rubbing your cheek in the folds of his sweater. “You’re so warm and comfortable. Five more minutes?”

“No,” he says, snorting. “Unlike you, I’m lying on solid steel. If your puny human brain can’t process the significance of that statement, it means I’m neither warm nor comfortable. In fact, I’m fucking _un_ comfortable. And my cartilaginous nub’s _still_ bleeding.”

“You’re cold, Karkat. A stone cold fox. That’s what you are. I thought we were having a moment.”

“ _You’re_ the one who thought oinkbeasts and fart niblets passed as a romantic gesture!”

“Touché. Or should I say, douché.”

“How about you say ‘I’m going to move my ass off you now, Karkat?’

“Naw, too scripted.”

“Dave!” he laughs, blood bubbling in his nostrils. “Get off me, you ostentatious behemoth!”

“Don’t fault my height just because you’re a pipsqueak, son. That’s just foul play.”

“Oh screw you, I am perfectly average in height. You’re the skyscraper with shades!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Karkat.”

“I _don’t_ sleep at night.”

“Which just means you need to keep telling yourself that some more. Hop to it, dude. Embrace the delusion, make it your bitch.”

“Dave!”

“Fine,” you say, moving over with exaggerated effort. “And to think, you call yourself a connoisseur of romance.” You disentangle your legs from his—which truly does take more work than you thought—and stand up. Now that the moment’s good and over, you pull your shades back down to sit securely atop your nose, welcoming the ensuing darkness. After patting yourself down, you offer your hand as he works to follow. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Karkat huffs, pulling himself up. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” To your delight, he continues to hold your hand, sweaty and moist as it may be.

“Hardest damn thing I’ve ever done,” you say, and he snorts with disbelief. But to some backwards extent, you think, it’s true; you’ve never felt more relaxed, laying in his arms with nothing but the drone of his purrs around you. But nothing lasts forever, and Karkat really does need to wash up if the bloody crust caking his chin is anything to go by.

Still, you hope many similar moments lay in your future. Your _immediate_ future. Maybe on the couch this time though—the sofa chair just wasn’t cut out for the job. Fingers entwined, you both wring your hands under said furniture and heave, pulling until it’s straight once more. Karkat tosses his fallen book back on the seat, presumably to return for it later. He’s pretty much the only one who uses this mangy thing, after all.

There. Good as new.

You wonder what the others will think though, of you and Karkat. Rose, of course, will be insufferable; she’ll be smugger than the cat who got the cream. Even more so, she’ll be the cat who won the Powerball lottery and then spent the millions on a life time’s supply of dairy products. Kanaya won’t be too far behind, though again, you think it’ll be high talk for them to crack jokes. You know damn well they’ve their own problems (hey, it’s not called ‘eavesdropping’ when they’re right outside the room, alright? Not your fault they didn’t bother to look first and okay _maybe_ you were a little worried after Rose’s drunken stupor and wanted to check up on her that one time, but who’s to say—not you, nope), and they were awkward as hell for ages before they finally tied the proverbial knot. Or, you guess it’s not a knot since they’re not actually engaged, but the point still stands. Awkward. As. Hell.

The Scourge Sisters, meanwhile, will either be completely disinterested or completely unbearable. It’s either one extreme or the other, never anything in-between.

As for John and Jade…your stomach twinges with unease at the thought. John ‘I Am Not a Homosexual’ Egbert—aka your knuckleheaded best friend for years, aka x2 the guy you kinda maybe sort of had a crush on as a kid and didn’t realize until your ass landed on the meteor—would he accept you? You’re not sure what you’d do if he didn’t. And hell, what about _Jade?_ Growing up, you just assumed you two would get together in the end, like it was some preordained inevitability. You’d always felt something special with her, even now. But it’s been years since you’ve seen her—seen either of them—and what if they’ve changed? What if they don’t like how _you’ve_ changed?

The more you think about this, the sicker you feel. The elation you felt with Karkat is still there, still snug and warm deep in your chest, but your nerves are determined to surmount it.

“What are you thinking about?” Karkat asks, breaking your train of thought like he’s the ringmaster of an Amtrak robbery. “You’ve been quiet for a while.” Curiosity flashes in his eyes, and their expressiveness contrasts with the ugly puffiness of the nose beneath them. It remains red and swollen, but you hope it’s nothing serious.

“Thinking about that one time I saw a picture of a drawing of Ryan Reynolds as a turkey,” you say without missing a beat. You tug him forward, making your way back to the transporter pad. “Shit’s just fucking unreal. Like, why draw him as a turkey? The man’s obviously a gun toting rooster. I ain’t no furry, but godfuckingdamn, that fandom needs to get its crap together.”

Karkat stops in his tracks. Because you like the feel of his hand in yours (and okay maybe it’s a little more comforting right now than you’d ever admit), you stop too. You look back at him, and Karkat is, as usual, unimpressed with your antics. But you note the underlying concern in his toothy frown and flattened ears, and gulp. How does he always see through you?

“Dave,” he says. Exasperation’s thick on his tongue, but there’s worry there, too. “What’s wrong?”

“Cutting right to the chase, huh?” you say, tugging at your collar. “Not even gonna throw me a bone with a Karkat-certified vintage shitfit?”

“You’re stalling enough as is,” Karkat retorts. “You don’t need further distractions. Now seriously, what’s wrong? Spit it out.”

“I…it’s just—”

You’re not quite sure how to explain this to him. He comes from a predominantly bisexual culture, for god’s sake. How can you make him understand?

“I’m just…worried about how the others will react is all,” you sigh. “Y’know, to us. Specifically, John and Jade. They don’t, uh. They don’t know that I, well. That I like girls _and_ guys.” You shrug, as if this means nothing to you (it means everything to you). Karkat looks on, thoughtful.

“So what? Are you scared of how they’ll react?”

“Something like that,” you say, using your free hand to scratch your neck. “I guess.”

“Huh. Well, I won’t pretend to understand your backwards ass human society,” he says, cocking his head left. “But fuck, I only talked to them for a couple hours at a time and even _I_ know those bucktoothed nincompoops don’t have a single judgmental bone in their bodies. Hell, there’s little chance of Egbert conjuring enough brain cells to produce a _coherent_ thought, much less an angry one.”

You must look unconvinced as Karkat’s gaze softens, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“But it’s okay if you don’t want to tell anyone,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your palm. “Seriously, I don’t mind. Besides, lord fucking knows I’m in no hurry to give Terezi and Vriska even more ammunition to work with.”

“Flighty broads,” you say, almost automatically. A heartbeat passes, then you pull Karkat in for a hug, crushing him in your grasp like you had earlier. He yelps at the unexpected embrace, but nevertheless returns it as he wraps his arms around you again. “Thanks, Karkat.”

“No problem,” he says, rapping his claws against your back. “But if our feeling jam’s over now, can we _please_ get back to scrubbing this shit off my face already?”

“Dude, you’re the one who stopped us,” you say, pulling away with a snort. “Don’t pin this on me.”

“Well excuse me for giving a crap!” Karkat huffs. He follows you to the transporter pad, fingers still entwined.

“You’re excused,” you say. Stepping aboard the pad, it enshrouds you both in white light. With a loud buzz, it begins the process of transporting your particles back to the hallway. “Professor Strider hereby grants you a permission slip from this verbal evisceration of truth-telling. But be forewarned, young padawan. You may ignore the truth for now, but remember—oh shit.”

“What?” Karkat asks. He’s standing behind you, unable to see what got your attention. “If you’re going to blither on and on about bullshit, at least have the decency of finishing it!”

Well, fuck. You can’t even grill him on how he actually _likes_ your rambling spiels. You’re too busy burying your face in your free hand, groaning loudly at the tiny Dersite before you. He’s sporting a shit eating grin, toothy and green stained, and holding up the third picture he’d drawn you this morning. He must’ve stashed it away in his robes earlier, waiting to pull it on you when you returned. Nodding at Karkat, he gives you a thumbs up.

“I forgot about the Mayor.”

Karkat laughs so hard he nearly falls over.

\--

Art by [Moonpaw17](http://moonpaw17.tumblr.com/post/154955485392/commission-for-agentsokka-help-them-check-out) on tumblr!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned that piece by Moonpaw17 in December and I'm glad to finally be able to post the chapter that it inspired it! Check out her [commission info](http://moonpaw17.tumblr.com/tagged/commission+info), there's great art for great prices. And speaking of art, [Notedchampagne](http://notedchampagne.tumblr.com/post/156977117630/everybody-go-vore-disengage-by-agentsokka-its-a) drew pieces for this fic and I've been crying over them all morning. These nerds are so cute, I'm dying. Thank you so much, [ApocalypticTaco!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypticTaco/pseuds/apocalypticTaco)
> 
> That said, thank y'all so much for reading! I thought about writing another scene where Karkat gets cleaned up, but my motivation ran dry at the time. Still, I've had a few weeks to refuel, and I'm not opposed to writing an addendum chapter if you guys are interested. Nevertheless, thank you SO much for sticking with me--I hope to write more pieces regardless in the future. Y'all are the best. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially just a motley of personal headcanons compounded into fic form between two of the most incredibly awkward turtle ducks ever to grace paradox space. This is my first finished piece overall, and I'm excited to share these nerds with you. But if you see any mistakes or have any constructive criticism, definitely alert me. Want to get better at this.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr at [agentsokka](http://agentsokka.tumblr.com/) if you're curious about anything!


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